


The First Time...

by a_dusky_gold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex (of sorts), Cannonical Minor Character Death, Happy Ending, M/M, OCs - Freeform, Oral Sex, Post Season 10, Post Season 11, Smut, Travel, episodic, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5952511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_dusky_gold/pseuds/a_dusky_gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie Bradbury’s poking around on Dean’s laptop has some very unexpected consequences, not the least of which is a jaunt across Europe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Oh woah, first post on AO3 as well as first big challenge and I can't believe it's finally here! Months of slogging away at my computer and my SPN Reverse Bang story is finally done! FINITO! 
> 
> Can't have done it without all these wonderful people - first, my amazing artist, Anna (ifonenight) for making the edits and the art that she has! It's been an amazing experience getting to work with you over these past few months and I'm so glad I got your piece assigned to me! :) Go on, y'all, check out her Art! 
> 
>  
> 
> [ Art masterpost LJ ](http://ifonenight.livejournal.com/560.html)  
> [ Art Tumblr ](http://buckybee.tumblr.com/post/138928195834/spnreversebang-art-masterpost-art-title-ever)
> 
>    
> Second, to my beta, Baya-the-dragon, who read, reread and rereread my story and offered my comments (and coffee!) in the middle of the night. Babes, thank you for being you! 
> 
> Third, my two cheerleaders and fellow fangirls, ru-dog and Aej, who have listened to me rant, cry and sob on the group and kicked me in the butt when I needed it! Aej, I hate (LOVE) you for bringing me into this fandom and ruining my life with all the ANGST, so thank you! :P
> 
> Finally, to the SPN Reversebang mods, who have outdone themselves putting all this together! Thank you so much for giving me the chance to work on this, I've had a blast!
> 
> PS - All details about every place that the boys go to are lifted off of Google (and from my wonderful artist, so thanks Anna!)... I do apologize if I have made any mistakes or gotten any details wrong, please let me know and I'll change it! Thanks!

 

 

The trip begins with Charlie.

 

They’re at the Bunker, the redhead poking around on Dean’s laptop and snorting at the not-so-well hidden porn on it. He’s reclining on a seat opposite to her, shooting her the occasional glare at her sniggers. They’ve just finished up a case and come home, with Sam and Cas out on another vampire-sighting in Iowa, which means that they’re the only ones here.

 

And Charlie, of course, has decided to help herself to his rather-extensive porn collection.

           

“Busty Asian Beauties, Dean?” she smirks at him and he drops the giant tome he’s been perusing (did he just use _tome_ and _perusing_ in the same friggin’ sentence? He needs to stop hangin’ out with Sam and Cas, the giant nerd-girls). With a frosty glare, he leans over and yanks at her shoulders, pulling her close to him and putting her in a headlock.

 

“You got a problem with that, Ace?” he grins and she yelps, struggling against his grasp. In a swift move, she head-butts him and he lets her go with a startled cry, rubbing at his now-sore jaw.

 

Charlie smirks, tilting her head in a move that she definitely learnt from Cas.

 

“Jesus, kid,” he grumbles, “When did you become Wonder Woman?”

 

She chuckles, pulling back enough to rest her head on his shoulder. He drops his head on top of hers, relaxing and sighs in contentment. Here, like _this_ , with her, with Cas and Sam… he can forget, for just a little while. He can forget about the goddamned Mark, about the fact that he’s not human, that out there, there’s murder and bloodshed and power and he’s in the middle of it all.

 

Silence reigns for a few moments before Charlie’s muffled voice breaks it.

 

“Your porn collection is too boob-y for my taste,” he grunts and pulls hard at a longer strand of red hair peeping out from the nape of her neck. She shrieks, glaring at him and then aims a punch at his forearm that he stops, catching her fist within his.

 

“Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…” he grins at her, “Maybe next time, kiddo.”

 

She huffs and turns back to his laptop in protest, pouting. He chuckles, ruffles her hair and drops a soft kiss on her neck is which turning a little pink from his hair-pulling. She sighs, but doesn’t respond, clicking through his folders instead.

 

And of- _fucking_ -course, Charlie Bradbury _would_ be the one to find his hidden items, the quiet secrets he’s been carrying around with him for almost an entire decade. He should have known, he supposes, looking back on it, that computers don’t hide anything from her. She’s the friggin’ computer-whisperer, after all.

 

“Dean?”

 

Her voice is soft, telling and he looks up from the book he was falling asleep over ( _The Myths of Ancient Greece_ sounds more like Cas’s ballgame anyway). His eyes narrow at the nervous way she fidgets and he leans over to see what’s gotten her so shaky.

It’s his _travel folder._

 

His fucking travel folder that he thought hiding in plain sight would be a fucking good idea, because who in _hell’s_ name would want to click a link that called _‘How to get Cas laid and cut Samantha’s hair’_?

 

 _Charlie_ would, apparently.

 

He should have known.

 

“What the actual _hell_ , Charlie?” he yells and then slams the laptop shut; her eyes narrow and she grabs at his arm as he jumps up.

 

“Dean,” she calls forcefully and he just glares down at her.

 

“Charlie,” he growls, “That…that was _not_ -”

 

What can he say, really? That the pictures he’s been collecting are just… _pictures_? That the stupid postcards he’s fucking _photoshopped_ himself and Sam and Cas onto were just… _him being stupid_? That he’s wanted to travel the world with Sammy, because the giant moose used to dream about flying to different places and not just shitty motel rooms? That there was a time he missed his brother so much that he fucking used _satellite_ _imagery_ to fix up fake images that would satisfy his craving?

 

God, his vagina is growing again. He braces himself for the laugh, for the teasing comment as Charlie sees the picture of himself and Sam, back from when he was just twelve years old and the kid eight, standing in front of Big-fucking-Ben.

 

“Tell me about it?”

 

Charlie’s voice is quiet, but there is no judgment in her tone. Her eyes are soft and warm and she reaches out to him with a gentle smile, yanking him back down. He lets her pull him to her, exhaling in a rush as he wraps his arm around her shoulder and drops a kiss on her forehead.

 

“It…it was just a dream, Char,” he murmurs. The redhead winds herself around him – and they’re not cuddling, they’re _not_ – raises her legs to plop them across his lap. He grunts, wiggling his ass until he’s comfortable, and then wraps his arms around her, pushing her head to his chest and drawing her in close.

 

“Spill, Winchester,” she says tartly, pinching at his belly and he slaps her head none-too-gently, ignoring her whine of protest.

 

“No one likes a busybody, Bradbury,” he mutters and she just shrugs.

 

“I like to think of myself as an _informed_ woman,” she tells him and he sighs.

 

“You ain’t lettin’ this go, are ya?”

 

She shakes her head, grinning brightly. Her hands, however, grab his, and she gently rubs her thumbs over his palms. God _damit_ , he will never be able to admit how the touch grounds him, soothes the anger simmering within his soul. His relationship with Sam – even Cas, sometimes – is volatile, powerful and angry. Sometimes, it’s enough to make his demon side go wild, makes him want to rip and shred and kill.

 

In contrast, Charlie is a study in warmth, a quiet grounding touch that keeps him from going all _Hulk_ on people.

 

So he folds.

 

He sighs and then reaches over to bring the laptop closer to them, setting the photos in the small folder on slideshow. He refuses to meet her eyes, but stares at the pictures instead – he’s a shitty editor and they’re so _obviously_ photoshopped that he can't even laugh at them anymore.

 

“Back-uh…back when we were kids…” he begins; Charlie squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Before Sam knew about…about everything, before the whole world came at us… he-he would bring these big, fat-ass books back to whatever shitty motel we were roomin’ at. He liked…he liked to read about the different cultures, different places and the giant nerd was always going on about how the world was big and huge and Dad was keeping us confined to just… just motel rooms and roadside grease-burgers.”

 

He swallows hard against the lump in his throat, memories of that sulky, angry eight-year old rising up. Sam didn’t know then, didn’t know that Dad was chasing the ghost of his mother’s past, didn’t know that Dean wanted to get out, _so_ bad. He was barely a child and he was, in essence, raising a child, and he missed Mom, missed her _so_ much –

 

Sam wanted to settle down in one place, put down roots, go to school, join clubs and have Thanksgiving and Christmas and all that shit. Dean wanted to travel, to see more than just America, to go to all those places that Sam used to read about in those big-ass books. But he didn’t want to do it alone; he wanted to go with Sam and with Dad.

And then Sam got out. He left the life, went to California – to college – and Dean’s dream of one day being able to let it all go, of one day finally crossing the seas and being able to see the world with his Dad and brother was dashed to hell.

 

He used to hope... hope that when the Yellow-Eyed demon was finally dead, when it was all over finally fucking over, he and Sam and Dad could take a vacation at least. They deserved that much – they could go to Europe maybe, just a few places. He even squirreled away what cash he could during his teens and early twenties, just a few hundred bucks, the small little wish the only thing he could want for himself.

 

And then Azazel _did_ die. But _Dad_ was dead too. And then he went to Hell and the fucking Apocalypse happened and nothing has been the same ever since.

 

It’s a secret he buried a long, _long_ time ago. And apparently, it’s a wound that’s festered, because _shit_ , his eyes are tearin’ up and he just- he _can't_ -

 

Charlie nuzzles his neck with a soft kiss and he looks down through bleary eyes to see her warm gaze. She doesn’t say anything and the itch to rip something apart settles under his skin, bubbling quietly beneath the surface.

 

He tells her about it, about _all_ of it.

 

He tells her how he made _that_ picture right after Sam took a nosedive into hell with Satan wearing his moose-ass. It was a dark night, when he’d left Lisa in bed and ended up staring at Sam’s laptop which had the picture as the background – a quiet reminder his brother carried around with him of the few good times in his childhood.

 

He tells her how it wasn’t the Big Ben in the actual background and he tells her about the real memory. Dean was _aching_ for his brother at that time, needing to remember something good about the kid he’d practically raised and this was one of his favorite memories.

 

A shitty _Gas-n-Sip_ , where they stopped on a hunt for supplies and Dean, who was playing around with the old Polaroid Bobby had given them on their last visit to his place, just snapped it. They were both grinning widely, Sammy’s cheeks – then chubby and flushed – dimpled finely and it had brought the tears tumbling down Dean’s face when he saw them at Lisa’s house.

 

He tells her how he then went and _played_ with it on Photoshop, a quiet cry of the elder brother who needing something to hold on to. In a moment of weakness, he’d wished to be someone else, tired and desperate, someone who could have actually gone to Big Ben and posed with his brother, someone who didn’t have the weight of the world hanging over his head…someone who could have fucking _saved_ him. Sam… Sam was gone. And the dream that he nursed for so long, kept quiet for so long, was dead along with him.

 

“I guess… I guess I just wanted to see those places for myself,” he mutters, pushing away, jumping up and turning his back to her. “But…but not without him.”

 

For a long moment, there’s no response. Dean thinks she’s given up, that she’s either going to get up and leave or just sit there and laugh, when he hears the rustling of papers behind him. Swiping at his eyes, he turns around to see that she’s doing neither. Instead, she’s reclining against the couch with a notepad and a pencil and a raised eyebrow.

 

“What the hell you doin’?” he asks and she pats the seat next to her. He sits hesitantly, scowling when she shoves the notepad in his face.

 

“Makin a list, Einstein,” she tells him enthusiastically. Dean just stares at her in confusion.

 

“Wh-what?” he asks stupidly and she sighs her typical _what-do-I-do-with-you-plebeians_ sigh, which usually comes out when she’s making some fangirl reference and none of her boys understand.

 

“You wanna travel the world, Dean,” she says softly. “So I’m gonna make sure that we do. Make a list of all the places you wanna visit.”

 

“Charlie?” he calls, “Have you fucking lost your mind? You do realize that to travel the world, we-uh… we need something… like uh, I dunno – _money_?”

 

Charlie rolls her eyes, “ _Pshew_ … money, funny, who cares? Not like I can't hack us on to a passenger’s list at anytime.”

 

The girl has lost her already-scattered marbles.

 

“I hate flying,” he stresses, “I-uh…I’m not… I just _hate_ -”

 

“Flying, I know,” she throws another smirk at him. “I read the Supernatural books. Hate, nothing. You’re _terrified_ , you giant girl.”

 

“Hey, metal tubes that fly are _not_ normal!” he protests and she just chuckles.

 

“So we’ll sail, then,” she says easily. “Or get Cas to fly us, it doesn’t matter. Just make the damn list, Dean. _Please_.”

 

Clearly, the redhead has been spending _way_ too much time with Sam, because she fucking turns those puppy eyes to him. He couldn’t say no to them on his idiotic brother when he was eight, and he can't say no to them now either on the girl who’s his sister in every way but blood.

 

(Goddamn, he’s gonna _kill_ Sam for teaching her how to make that one fucking face he knows Dean just cannot deny). 

 

So he sits his goddamn ass down and makes the fucking list.

 

He doesn’t realize that it’ll be the last thing Charlie will ever make him do.

 

*-*-*

 

Charlie’s gone.

 

She’s fucking _gone_.

 

It’s been a whole goddamned _year_ since she died and he went apeshit crazy over her death, his demon side roaring for blood and vengeance. It’s been a _full_ year and they’ve been through some more shit since then – from defeating the fucking Darkness to making sure Heaven is backing to working order, they’ve not had a moment’s rest.

 

It _still_ hurts.

 

Today’s the one year anniversary.

 

Dean’s sitting in the Bunker, trying to remember how to breathe, chest tight as the memory returns – the last time he and Charlie were here together, they were digging through his laptop and she was making that stupid list.

 

 _“You wanted to travel the world, Dean,”_ she said, _“So we’ll travel the world.”_

 

He and Sam have lost _so_ much – Mom and Dad, Bobby, Ellen and Jo, Kevin… but Charlie, _Charlie_ was _never_ supposed to die, she was supposed to be _here_ , hacking and fangirling and LARPing and whatever the shit else she did.

 

His eyes are burning as he opens the same folder from a year ago – bless the girl, she set up a password for the damn thing and kept it hidden from everyone except themselves. She didn’t even tell Sam about it because he asked her not to.

 

He hasn’t opened this list since the day she passed.

 

He opens it now and freezes – _damn_ the girl, she didn’t stop at that.

 

 _Tons and tons_ of pictures litter the folder. They’re all well-edited, far better than any of the shit he’s ever made. And it’s not just pictures; there are fucking _gifs_ (which he only knows about because the redhead made him go on _Tumblr_ with her once), all lovingly made. He sees himself and Sam and Cas – at the Bunker, in the Impala, on hunts…

 

And she’s added herself too, though these pictures are far less in number. The sunny smile on her face _hurts_ now; he’s burning, oh god, his heart is hammering and his skin is too tight and he can't see because fucking hell, she’s gone, she’s _gone_ –

 

 Dean couldn’t mourn her properly then; his demon side had demanded blood, the anger and the hatred twisting him inside out with blackness and revenge. And then shit upon shit piled up on them, leaving them with barely any breathing space.

 

The tears burn his eyes as he clicks on of the gifs. It’s a set of pictures, edited to show all four of them, laughing and smiling at one another. Behind them, the Leaning Tower of Pisa stands proud and suddenly, goddamn it, _she’s gone._

 

He opens the word document in which she’s typed out the list – the actual piece of paper that they wrote it on has been scanned and uploaded, with all the dumbass doodles that they spent half the day drawing.

 

**_Well, bitches, here it is!_ **

 

The first line below the scanned copy, all nearly typed out, is such a _Charlie_ statement, Dean finds it hard to breathe for a second. His chest aches and he swallows the lump as he minimizes the window and slams the lid of his laptop down _hard_.

 

He should have known – _known_ that this wasn’t something that was meant for him, not for Dean Winchester, who was a demon and a monster and a goddamned killer. Even when they made the list, a part of him knew that it was going to end up a mockery of everything he’s ever wanted, if only because he was still had the Mark on his arm and the trip presupposed a cure that would leave them all living happily ever after.

 

Well, there was a cure. Of sorts. And he’s human again. But Charlie’s _gone_.

 

God, her death was so useless, so utterly _pointless_ … she shouldn’t have died, she _shouldn’t_ have –

 

“Dean?”

 

Cas’s rough voice startles him. He jumps up to see the angel standing behind him with a frown on his face. He’s dressed in his trench coat and Dean’s heart expands at the damn thing. Ever since Cas took to human life, he all but abandoned it and seeing it now is like getting a piece of home back.

 

“Hey Cas,” he mutters a small greeting, sinking back on to the couch and closing his eyes against the onslaught of memories and tears. Anniversaries are hard bitches to deal with.

 

“You’re upset,” Cas settles in next to him, his tone matter-of-fact and Dean doesn’t even bother protesting his statement.

 

“Can you fudging blame me?” he grunts and the angel falls silent. Dean’s eyes are still closed, but at the sound of the slight ping, they shoot open in alarm and surprise.

 

 _Damn_ it, he should’ve known Cas would pick up his laptop and dig into it! His obsession with technology has been getting better, but that Dean’s upset and he was looking at his laptop earlier is reason enough for him to check it out.

 

“Cas, fucking hell-” he grits his teeth, making a grab for it, but he avoids his grasp easily, perusing the file with pursed lips and a light scowl.

 

“Dean, what is this?” he asks. “We… we never took these pictures or went to the Leaning Tower of-”

 

“They’re edits,” Dean cuts in, scowling back at him and tries to reach for his laptop again. “Cas, _goddamned_ it, give it to me. They’re private and you can't just-”

 

“Charlie made this,” it’s Cas’s turn to interrupt and Dean falls silent. He doesn’t need to confirm or deny the statement – the document is clearly a Charlie-written piece, what with the swearing and the fan references. With a bitter chuckle, Dean sighs, rubbing his hands over his eyes.

 

“Yeah man,” he murmurs, “It’s… Charlie wrote it. Though, I-uh… I helped.”

 

“I apologize, Dean,” green eyes blink in surprise as the angel hands the laptop back to him. “I did not mean to pry. I was just worried.”

 

Dean grunts, accepting the apology. His chest is still burning with the loss, but he peers at the document, unable to resist.

 

“Would-uh-” he clears his throat, hesitant, “Would you… read it with me?”

 

Cas nods seriously. “Of course, Dean.”

 

_Well, bitches, here it is!_

_The final list of places we are going to Tardis our way through… or at least, begin with… Dean wants to go to Europe, so we’ll start there. Finding a ship to sail us there may not be easy, but never fear – Bradbury will hack her way into some fancy-shmancy Titanic for you!_

_(Sam, maybe we can even go ahead and cast Dean and Cas into Jack and Rose’s roles? Dean, draw him like one of your French girls!)_

Damn the girl, even from beyond the grave, she can fangirl over his bloody life and make him blush and stutter. She’s never made it secret that she thinks they have something for each other. To be fair, he’s never confirmed or denied it.

 

He sneaks a peak at Cas, who just looks grave and amused all at once, and shrugging, he returns to the note.

 

_We’ll have our own When in Rome story, what say, boys? Maybe Cas can Floo us there, if the ship plan doesn’t work out… Dean, shut your pie-hole, we’re going even if we have to fly. Period._

It ends abruptly, just like Charlie’s life ended abruptly. But there are notes and there are pictures and there are little, tiny doodles all over the page – she’s set up the _whole_ journey, from start to finish.

 

They would land at Portugal and then slowly make their way further inland, moving through Europe from the tail end of Portugal to the United Kingdom and then doubling back to Spain to end their trip. Hotels are marked, as are pit-stops, and _fuck_ , there’s even a list of the festivals and the dates they’re celebrated on so that they wouldn’t just be sightseeing.

 

Charlie’s gone all out.

 

“You wanted to travel?” Cas asks suddenly and Dean ducks his head, murmuring his consent and shrugging.

 

“It was a stupid pipe dream, Cas,” he mutters and Castiel’s glare is harsh.

 

“Charlie clearly didn’t want it to be,” he retorted. “She went through all this trouble to set this up for you.”

 

“Dude, she was _bored_ ,” Dean snaps, “ _I_ was bored.”

 

“And that’s why she’s taken so much effort into planning this for you,” Cas has been working on his sarcasm and it shows. “Clearly, she was _very_ bored.”

 

“Cas, I-” Dean deflates. _God_ , it was a _dumb_ dream, one that he burned along with Dad’s dead body, but for a second there… for a few moments, he let himself believe that they _could_ do it – they _could_ have that gorgeous family vacation, the four of them, him and Sam and Cas and Charlie… because it was as simple as making a stupid list, and Charlie Bradbury did not take no for answer.

 

“She wanted you to be happy, Dean,” Cas tells him softly. “She loved you and she wanted you to have a good time. You do her dishonor by not respecting her wishes.”

 

Dean’s head whips around; his glare is fierce but the angel doesn’t back down, blue eyes meeting his probing gaze squarely.

 

“Shut the _hell_ up,” he says, clenching his fist in an attempt to not punch the angel in the face – fuck, that hurt, “You can't just-”

 

“I can and I most certainly will,” it’s an echo of the old Cas, the one _who-gripped-you-tight-and-raised-you-from-perdition_ and _could-throw-you-back-in_. The glimpse of _Castiel_ throws Dean momentarily; he pauses, hesitating.

 

“It’s alright to miss her, Dean,” the voice turns soft, those too-blue eyes too fucking understanding for the hunter’s liking and Dean turns away, refusing to admit to the ache in his chest.

 

“It’s been a _year_ ,” he protests quietly.

 

“ _Exactly_ one year,” Cas points out. “You’re allowed to mourn her, especially today.”

 

It’s _not_ how he works – Dean buries things, deep down, stomping on ‘em and throwing dirt over ‘em until they disappear or just get pushed down so deep they don’t hurt as much anymore. But he’s tired, so _damn_ tired, of shoving horseshit over his own aches, of shoveling them deep inside where they’re slowly turning into a black, black poison that’s killing him slowly.

 

Damn, he’s apparently a fucking poet.

 

“Charlie is missed,” Cas murmurs, “But she would want you to do this, Dean. She wants you to be happy.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean replies, hunching in on himself. “Yeah, Cas.”

 

There’s nothing more to be said.

 

A week later, they’re on the ship – him and Cas and Sam. There is an emptiness in their chests, but it’s accompanied by a bittersweet warmth and Dean keeps the map that Charlie’s marked trails on close to him, clinging to it like it’s a lifeline.


	2. Chapter 1

 

The first time Dean can admit to himself openly that he wants something more than what the hunter life gives him, he and Cas and Sam are in Portugal, in a tiny little town called Evora.

 

Europe seems to have loosened up all those quiet desires that he’s kept hidden away, that he’s buried deep inside him since the moment Dad thrust the tiny little bundle into his arms and yelled at him to _“Take Sammy and run, Dean!”_

 

Dean doesn’t know why it’s happened; he doesn’t know if it’s just the fact that he’s crossed an entire ocean and travelled halfway across the country or if it’s that he and Charlie planned this trip together and his friend is dead and he’s taking it alone.

 

Or maybe he’s just fucking tired of lying to himself. Honestly, he’s exhausted far beyond his age; all of them are. The forty years in Hell, the shit that they’ve been through the many years… the image of sitting in a car with Emmanuel-Cas and telling him how he used to be able to just shake it off flashes across his eyes… he’s losing that ability as the days go by, losing even what Frank Deveraux taught him, to keep smiling till it no longer hurts.

 

Maybe it’s all of those things.

 

And maybe it isn’t.

 

Dean doesn’t really care.

 

He just knows that they’re standing in the middle of the ruins of a thousand year old temple, (The Roman Temple of Diana, one of the main cultural attractions that UNESCO-declared-as-Heritage-Site-Evora has to offer, and goddamned it, he needs to stop hanging out with the giant nerd-girls that are Sam and Cas) and his heart is suddenly aching from the sense of utter _desolation_ that he feels.

 

The rest of the damn tourist party that Sam insisted they sign up for has already moved on, but Cas stops short, taking both Winchester brothers by surprise.

 

“Cas?” Sam asks confusedly. The angel has gone stock still and Dean reaches out to grab his shoulder concernedly.

 

“There’s…” with nothing more than a quiet murmur, he strides away, marching off in a direction opposite to the rest of the tourist party. Dean and Sam exchange worried glances before they take off after him – the tourist party sucked ass anyway.

 

The temple is gorgeous, despite being in ruins, but there’s a sense of bittersweetness about the place, a sense of sadness that strikes Dean hard. It’s not something he’s going to openly admit to, but the history of it, the lore and the eons that these rocks have seen… it does send a prickle through his spine.

 

So he’s not really surprised when he and Sam come round the corner and they see Cas holding an ancient-looking wooden sword in hand and a glowing spirit behind him. Dean’s rushing to his friend even before he knows what he’s doing – the ghost is _looming_ behind the angel and looks threatening.

 

But Cas is calm when he turns to her.

 

“Dean!” Sam pulls him back and the elder Winchester is about to yell at his brother when he notices the quiet smile on the ghost’s face and the corresponding look of reassurance that Cas offers her.

 

The ghost is a young woman, looking to be in her late twenties and Dean’s heart sinks when he notices the long, red hair and the light-colored eyes. God, she looks so young, so _innocent_ …

 

She looks like Charlie.

 

But not Charlie as she did when she was killed; she looks like Charlie when they met her the first time, all innocence and determination and volunteering herself to protect the planet because _“…what douchebag stands by when everyone she knows is getting eaten?”_

 

And judging from the look on Sam’s face, he sees it too.

 

“Cas?” Dean mutters, hovering behind the angel, who offers him a shrug.

 

“She… she was a hunter, Dean,” Cas offers, hands clutching at the wooden sword in his hand tightly. It doesn’t take the hunter long to realize that that’s the tether that’s keeping her tied to the world. What’s surprising is that she isn’t trying to protect it – she isn’t going vengeful.

 

But protecting those he loves is gut-instinct for him now and Cas slid in there, neatly behind Sammy a long time ago. He moves forward, ignoring the angel’s dirty look and pushes him back, glaring at the ghost, who simply offers him a tired smile.

 

“Dean,” Cas mutters, his tone irritated. “She’s not going to harm anyone.”

 

“She’s a friggin’ _spirit_ ,” he protests, but even he can see it – she’s simply tired and sad. It’s weird as fuck and his every instinct is screaming at him to gank her, but another part of him – the one who gave Jesse the Anti-Christ a chance, the one who cares for Cas, the one who was willing to protect fucking Crowley and Meg – feels nothing but sympathy for her.

 

“She died trying to protect a child during the Germanic invasion, Dean,” Cas snaps, “She’s been here for more than a millennium and she’s been acting as a guardian spirit, not a vengeful one.”

 

Dean blinks, sighing. Damn angel mojo and damn Cas for telling him exactly what he needs to hear to back off. He offers the ghost one more trying glare; she tilts her head in a gesture that’s entirely reminiscent of the angel himself. Uncomfortable, the hunter moves back to where Sam’s been standing quietly, a look of compassion on his moose-like features.

 

“Cas?” Sam’s voice is quiet. “What’re you gonna do?”

 

He looks pointedly at the sword that Cas is holding. The ghost moves then, pushing towards where Cas is standing and before Dean knows it, he’s pulled out his gun and shot a salt round at her.

 

She vanishes in a puff of smoke, an eerie moan echoing loudly in the clearing. Cas turns to Dean, an expression of righteous fury on his face and damn, but he’s gone and fucked it up now, hasn’t he?

 

“Dean,” he growls, “I’m not helpless. She was simply trying to communicate, so if you would just stop overreacting for one moment-”

 

“She’s a ghost, Cas!” he protests. Cas’s glare turns stony and Dean sighs, shrugging in defeat.

 

“She’s a _guardian spirit_ ,” the angel stresses. “They’re rare. Most spirits who linger end up becoming vengeful, but there are a few who serve a purpose. She is one.”

 

Dean falls silent and the look that Sam sends him tells him that his brother is thinking the same thing. If all ghosts didn’t turn vengeful… _Bobby_ …

 

Why couldn’t Bobby have been one of these guardian fucking spirits or whatever?

 

As if on cue, she returns. Dean almost laughs at the look on her face – she looks like Charlie did when Dean forbade her from hunting, all pouts and sly irritation and _damn_ , he needs to stop comparing these two, because fucking hell, his chest hurts with the loss of his friend who should be here, with them, travelling the world and seeing the goddamned sights.

 

_She_ made this trip possible.

 

Cas grunts, pushing past Dean and the hunter just watches, unable to do anything else as the angel quietly burns the sword to ashes with his mojo. The ghost in front of them smiles as she burns too, a look of tired peace settling over her features, even as she mouths something.

 

_Obrigado._

Dean doesn’t need to know Portuguese to understand that she’s thanking them – the look on her face says it all.

 

“Rest now,” Cas murmurs, “You have done well for a thousand years.”

 

Without another word, he turns and strides back the way they came.

 

Sam, though, hovers behind Dean and the elder Winchester knows that his brother wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to get it across. He’s been on the receiving end of Sam’s need to share to recognize the signs – the hesitant look on his moose-face, the hands shoved into his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting and the uneasy shift of his weight from one foot to another.

 

“Spit out Sammy,” he grunts.

 

“Dean…” Sam’s voice lingers and in it, he hears the quiet tears of the child he’s been responsible for since he was four.

 

“Dean, _Mom_ …” Sam doesn’t need to say anything more, because that’s where Dean’s mind has been at too.

 

Mom didn’t turn vengeful. She stayed as a spirit in their old home, waiting for them to return so that she could protect them one last time, waited to see her boys one more time before she burnt herself out – _again_ – to keep them safe.

 

And that’s what a hunter’s life is… forever sacrificing their own selves for the sake of a screwed-up, fucked-up world that doesn’t acknowledge, or even _know_ , about all they’ve given up for it.

 

Dean doesn’t know what to say.

 

“I know, Sammy,” he mutters. Sam huffs, but doesn’t respond.

 

They stand there, watching silently as the sword’s ashes fly off into the wind and Dean wonders at the quiet tightening of his chest.

 

_This_ is what a hunter’s life is.

 

And for the first time since Charlie’s passing, maybe even _because_ of it, he can admit it to himself – he wants more.


	3. Chapter 2

 

The first time Dean and Cas share a bed (no, fucking hell, they’re _not_ cuddling!), they’re in Switzerland and it’s the most clichéd goddamned thing the hunter has ever done.

 

Because of fucking course, Charlie would drop them in Landiwiese, Zurich in the middle of the _Zürcher Theater Spektakel_ , or the Zurich Theatre Spektakel (Festival), conducted annually in the month of August. It’s one of the biggest events in the whole damned country, inviting people from all over the friggin’ continent.

 

(No, he doesn’t know all this shit, he’s just reading from Charlie’s notes.)

 

Dean supposes, really, that it was inevitable that she would do this. After all, Charlie is a consummate fangirl who LARPs…LARP _ed_ on a regular basis, had a Hermione bobble-head on her desk and possessed a Princess-Leia-in-a-bikini tattoo.

 

(He’s not going to admit it, but Dean Winchester is as much a fanboy as Charlie Bradbury was a fangirl. Just ask _Dr. Sexy_ ).

 

He drags his brother and their friend out to the theatre festival and they spend the entire evening watching one performance after the other. There are street dances and spoken word poetry and full theatre performances and Dean’s head is swimming from the pamphlet and schedule he’s clutching.

 

Dean will never really admit to it, but this sort of performance is exhilarating; it’s not something he’d enjoy normally – high brow culture reminds him too often that he’s just a goddamned high school dropout with a GED to his name. But Sammy’s practically vibrating with excitement in his seat, grinning widely and spouting off random facts about the festival itself.

 

No, he really _didn’t_ wanna know that Emma Dante, the Italian playwright and director is acting onstage this year or that the Belgian troupe that’s performing next has been rumored to be the best in the country.

 

But Dean _can_ admit that the crowd’s enthusiasm is infectious; even Cas is grinning widely, clapping along to the music, losing some of that angelic uptightness and enjoying himself. Dean hasn’t seen him this happy since the idiot discovered Netflix.

 

A part of Dean wonders how Charlie would react if she were here; would she climb the platform next to him and yell her enthusiasm out loud for the actors onstage? Would she join the street dancers? Would she pull Dean on top with her, just like she forced him into LARPing?

 

He knows she would.

 

And it’s that thought that makes him think, _well fuck it_ , and scream his own excitement into the air. Sam’s startled and turns to stare at his brother, eyes narrowing in question. Dean makes one of his own bitch-faces at him.

 

“Dean, are you-?” he begins, the corner of his lips turned up in a knowing smirk.

 

“Shut it, Samantha,” Dean grumbles and the younger Winchester laughs out loud, turning back to where the actors are dancing onstage. He doesn’t even fucking know _what_ he’s watching; this particular show is in Italian, for heaven’s sake. But here, in this moment, wrapped around his brother and his friend, Dean feels a sense of peace settle into his bones that’s been evading him for a long, long time.

 

By the time seven o’clock rolls around, Dean’s stomach is growling like a bitch and he wants dinner. He drags Sam and Cas out, ignoring Cas’s look of irritation and Sam’s whine. They don’t have tickets to the next show anyway, and dammit, he wants food right now.

 

It figures that Sammy would find Zurich of all places to get laid.

 

They’re walking around Landiwiese, checking out the many food stalls and Dean’s halfway through his Swiss Cheese Fondue (he damn near had an orgasm at the taste of the most clichéd Swiss treat in the world) when they meet Marie.

 

A walking stereotype if he’s ever met one, she’s a dancer, traveling with one of the lesser known Spanish troupes that have been given a spot in the festival this year. She’s twenty-nine years old, single and smokin’ hot, and judging by the looks she’s throwing his younger brother, also totally in for a night of fun.

 

Strangely enough, Dean’s not too interested in actually charming his way into her pants. Even just a few years ago, he’d have been all over that – she’s gorgeous, with sinewy long legs of a dancer that would wrap just perfectly around his own hips. But Dean’s tired of the one night stands, tired of the energy it requires to charm ‘em and then leave ‘em. He hasn’t seen much action since Lisa, to be honest.

 

So when Sam shoots him a pleading look, flirting back as he has been for the past half an hour, Dean just smirks and punches his brother’s arm.

 

“Go for it, Sammy, ya big dog,” he grins and Sam makes a bitch-face at him before he turns to Marie, who is smiling at him rather seductively.

 

Cas is just watching them with a bewildered look on his face and his expression has the hunter snorting into his beer.

 

It doesn’t take long after that for them to get back to the hotel; Marie follows up with Sam into their room and Dean sighs, returning to Cas’s room with him, looking forward to sinking into bed and conking out completely.

 

There’s just one bed.

 

How the _hell_ did he forget that Cas was in a single room as opposed to his and Sammy’s double?

 

“Fuck,” Dean swears as he takes in the sight of the neatly folded clothes lying on top of the bed, evidence of Cas’s morning routine. He’s barely spent any time in the angel’s room at the Bunker, so he’s really kind of surprised to find that his friend is tidy and neat, given how rumpled his trench coat usually is and the horrid sex-hair he’s always carrying around.

 

(Not that Dean’s noticed the sex hair or wondered about it.)

 

“You can take the bed, Dean,” Cas murmurs. “I can sit over there.”

 

He inclines his head towards the chair and table sitting a corner of the small room and Dean sighs, shaking his head.

 

“Cas, you can’t-” he begins a token protest.

 

“Dean, you require sleep,” Cas interrupts, seeing through his bullshit instantly. “I’m an angel, it’s hardly any discomfort to me.”

 

So saying, the stupid angel just walks over to the table and parks his ass on the chair, leaning back against the wood with a quiet sigh. Dean blinks – well, alright then, bed it is.

 

For a moment, they’re just starting at each other before the hunter huffs; really, this is just dumb. This is _Cas_ , for god’s sake. With that thought in mind, Dean throws himself on the bed and begins unlacing his boots, resolutely keeping his eyes on the floor and refusing to look at the angel.

 

If he hears a sharp intake of breath when pulls his jacket over his head, the shirt riding up to reveal his skin, then he ignores that too.

 

Ten minutes later, he’s just in his boxers and a t-shirt, nestled into warm, fluffy pillows that smell of rain and thunderstorms and power – of _Cas_.

 

It soothes an ache he didn’t even know he had.

 

“Night, Cas,” he mutters into the darkness.

 

“Goodnight, Dean,” the rumbling voice eases him into sleep.

 

_He’s holding the knife, the blood dripping down the length of his palm in a hot, sticky swirl, enticingly red and warm. In front of him, tied up on the rack is a woman, whimpering and pleading with him to stop, just stop, it hurts, it_ hurts _–_

_Dean laughs out loud, exhilarated at the rush of power that thrums through his veins. His blood is singing – with anger, with vengeance, with the ability to control his fate as he hasn’t had since he was four years old… and the blood, the_ blood _– it feels so_ good _, dripping against his skin, splattering itself on to his torso as he slices into her arm, cutting open a singular vein._

_“Please,” she sobs, gasping and shaking, “Please…”_

_“Please what?” he whispers menacingly._

_“Please, baby, stop,” the woman looks up then, meeting his gaze squarely, green eyes exactly like his staring at him in plea._

_It’s Mom._

_The knife clutters out of his hands as he stumbles back, bile making its way into his throat as horror bubbles cold in his stomach at the sight._

_He’s torturing_ Mom _._

_Mom is tied up on his rack and he’s taking her apart, piece by piece, and_ enjoying _it –_

“Dean!”

 

The warmth of Cas’s two fingers on his head has the hunter surging up in bed, gasping for breath. Sweat has beaded on his skin despite the cool weather and distantly, he’s aware that tears are fucking _flowing_ down his face, but he really can't give two shits right now, because that was Mom, that was _Mom_ that he was torturing and slicing up and making bleed and oh god, he’s a _monster_ –

 

“Dean, breathe!”

 

Dimly, he feels two strong hands cradle his face and a rough stubble rasp against his cheek as he’s pulled against a warm, solid shoulder. He shudders, drawing himself closer to that protective shelter, burrowing closer and closer until he’s completely wrapped up in Cas’s arms, bracketed in that stupid trench coat.

 

He knows he’s clinging like a little boy, but right now, he feels like a little boy. And that decade old ache for Mom, who dressed him in his _I wuv hugs_ shirt and sang him to sleep with _Hey Jude_ and kissed away all his aches and pains – it crops up in his chest, stronger than ever. The world is closing in on him and he can't breathe, he can't – it’s Mom, _Mom_ –

 

“It’s alright, Dean,” Cas murmurs in his ears. “You’re safe now. You’re not in Hell any longer.”

 

But he _was_ a demon.

 

He’s a fucking monster.

 

“No, you’re _not_ ,” Cas’s voice is low and angry and Dean realizes he must have spoken out loud. He looks up through teary eyes to see blue eyes that are glowing with suppressed rage and he trembles, lapping up the affection and the warmth the angel exudes. He doesn’t deserve it, fucking hell, he _doesn’t_ , but he’ll take it, because it’s a comfort and a lifeline and he needs that right now.

 

“You have been placed, time and again, under impossible circumstances,” Cas whispers, running his hand through Dean’s sweat-matted hair and fuck it, the hunter leans into the touch. “And each time, you just give and give and ask for nothing in return. That’s not what demons do, Dean… that’s not what a monster does.”

 

There’s more to be said, more to ask and he doesn’t deserve any of this, but Dean’s tired. He’s utterly exhausted.

 

So when Cas pushes him back gently into the bed, he goes willingly, closing his eyes and falling against the pillows of rain and thunder. He doesn’t sleep, though; he’s too fucking scared that he’ll see Mom or Dad or god forbid, _Sammy_ , on the rack where he tore apart skin and soul alike without the slightest remorse.

 

When Cas moves to get up, Dean’s heart lurches with panic, chest going hot with fear. He grabs at the angel’s arms, pulling him back down with a whimper. It doesn’t matter that Cas has put him through as much as anyone else, doesn’t matter that Cas hasn’t been Castiel the angel in a long, long time, doesn’t matter that Dean’s a pansy ass for needing him so close.

 

Because this is _Cas_ – Cas, who rebuilt him when he was shredded to ribbons; Cas, who gave up fucking Heaven because he, Dean, said so; Cas, who is a Winchester in all but name and so has given and taken as much bullshit from him as Sam has.

 

“Don’t go, Cas,” he whispers raggedly, breathing heavily. “Please don’t…”

 

There’s so much more he wants to say, so much he wants to tell the angel, but his words and his voice fail him as always. Emotionally stable he has never claimed to be, but right now, he wants the security of knowing that an angel is watching over him like _Mom_ promised. And not just any angel, _his_ angel – Cas.

 

(He’s not going to face the implications of that statement, even within the confines of his own mind. It’s too big, it’s too much and he’s not ready.)

 

Cas is quiet, but he moves in closer, seating himself against the headboard of the bed next to Dean, one hand patting the hunter’s shoulder affectionately and the other sifting through his hair. Dean wraps his arm around his thigh, burying his face in the crook between his skin and the bed, breathing in deeply as some of the tension slowly leaks out.

 

He has no more nightmares that night.


	4. Chapter 3

The first time Dean finally, finally admits to himself that Cas is… well, _more_ than a friend, it’s in Germany, in the middle of a goddamned Holocaust memorial.

 

Things between him and the angel have been _iffy_ since that night in Zurich, when Dean fucking cuddled up to him like he was a friggin’ teddy bear. Cas didn’t say anything the next morning, for which the hunter is eternally grateful. But there’s been a quiet undercurrent of… _something_ … between them ever since.

 

Which is utterly strange, because Dean knows – _knows_ – that this isn’t the first time that Cas has soothed his nightmares. If Dean was even able to function so well and so soon after his time in Hell, it’s only because Cas helped in those intervening days. Despite being an uptight angel dick, he took the time to help Dean sleep better, at least for a few hours, so that he could function somewhat normally during the day.

 

So why does it feel so weird this time?

 

He doesn’t know and it makes his skin itch.

 

Where Switzerland was cold, adhering to all the clichés, Germany, in contrast, is quite warm, even now, in the tail end of October, when winter is beginning to set in. They spent quite some time in Munich, enjoying the Oktoberfest, though it left Dean missing Charlie again, because _they_ definitely didn’t choose to just plop into the city when the festival was in full swing.

 

Now, in Berlin, they’re making their way to one of the many Holocaust museums, because Sam is a giant friggin’ nerd and Cas just follows him like a wounded puppy when it comes to learning more about human history.

 

Dean’s just along for the ride. They’ve already visited the famous Holocaust Memorial and he has to admit that it struck a chord within him, all those utterly useless deaths because one man got into his little head that he was better than everybody else. The place was sad and tiring and it reminded the hunter entirely too much of all that he’s lost.

 

He’s quiet as he follows Sam up the stairs in the Museum, quietly perusing the stories of the many victims that are displayed on the walls. Cas is leaning close to one of the plaques, brows furrowed as he reads it silently, and Dean sighs as he watches the angel from the corner of his eye.

 

He hasn’t slept as well as he did that night for a long, long time. And he is well aware that it wasn’t just Cas’s angel mojo. Just having him there helped in ways he will never be able to articulate.

 

He turns his attention to the plaque in front of him when he hears the quiet sniffle. Turning around, he sees an old woman, maybe in her late seventies, staring up at the photograph of the handsome young man that’s displayed. Her eyes are tearing up and her expression is one of utter desolation.

 

Dean knows that kind of desolation – he sees it every day in the mirror.

 

“Umm… lady, you okay there?” he asks awkwardly, because, yeah, he never does this – it’s more Sam’s forte to offer a shoulder to crying damsels on the street. He realizes with a start that she probably doesn’t understand him, since he’s speaking English and he hides a wince when she turns to him.

 

“You are American?” her accent is thick, heavy, but there is no judgment in her tone as she sniffles up at him.

 

He nods at her, “Yes,” he affirms. She offers him a watery smile then.

 

“Zi-Zis …” she gestures to the man in the picture, “Zis… he vas my bruzzer… German, ant yet… he vas gasst to death.”

 

A single tear drops down the length of her cheek and sympathy tightens Dean’s chest. He knows that feeling, knows what it’s like to be the brother left behind… losing Sam damn near killed him each time.

 

Surprising himself, he wraps his arm around the old woman’s shoulder and fumbles with his pockets before he pulls out a tissue and offers it to her. She smiles wearily and takes it, blowing her nose into it before she continues.

 

“He… he vas killt,” she mutters, “For lofe.”

 

“Love?” Dean questions.

 

She nods, “Lofe… he lofed a man, a good vone… zey vere happy, very happy.”

 

“He… he was gay?” Dean’s voice is soft and she sighs.

 

“Yes,” she murmurs. “And in Hitler’s Germany… it vas sin. My bruzzer didn’t care… he rebelled and so, he die.”

 

Dean’s eyes slide to where Cas is standing, muttering to himself about something. How many times has Cas died so far because _he_ didn’t care? How many times has he sacrificed his own life for Dean, for Sam?

 

The answer is stuck in his throat and it makes his heart thunder with all those stupid, unsaid things he’s too damn cowardly to admit. So he pushes it away and looks down at the woman, who’s staring at him with a knowing expression on her face. A flush climbs up the length of his neck and the collar of his shirt feels too tight as he turns away from her piercing gaze.

 

“Ummm… I-I am sorry for your loss,” he stammers, pulling away. But she stops him, her grip surprisingly tight for a seventy-something woman who’s barely half his size.

 

“Today…today is zier anniver-sary,” she intones, “Ant every year… I come… to remember… zat, lofe – lofe is precious. Ze world hates Germans for vat happened, but it forgets… ve vere hurt too.”

 

Leaning up, she pats Dean’s cheek.

 

“You keep your lofe klose to your heart,” she murmurs and then drops his hand abruptly. She looks up at the image of her brother on the victims’ wall one more time, pressing her hand to her lips and then reaching out to trace his face. Without another word, she turns around and walks away, nimble for a woman of her age, leaving behind a gob-smacked hunter.

 

“Dean?” Cas’s voice startles him and he whirls around, yelping when he finds the angel standing too close to him.

 

“Cas, what the hell?!” he grunts, moving back. His heart is hammering a mile a minute and his face is red.

 

“Are you alright?” Cas frowns and Dean nods emphatically, scurrying away, trying to put as much distance as he can amongst them.

 

“I'm fine, man,” he mutters and his friend sighs, apparently resigning himself to Dean’s usual non-answers.

 

“This… this wall,” Cas murmurs then, “It’s heartbreaking, Dean… humans can create so much, make such beautiful things… but they’re also capable of so much hatred…”

 

The angel trails off, his eyes returning to the stories that have been displayed on the walls. He is frowning and Dean’s unsurprised to see that his eyes are glassy, reflecting a thousand different emotions that he knows Cas feels, but finds hard to process.

 

He understands.

 

His own eyes return to the picture of the woman’s brother.

 

_Josef Krein_.

 

The plaque tells the story of the man, born and bred as German, who fell in love with his neighbor. Both lovers refused to hide their relationship when homosexuality was criminalized under Hitler, instead choosing to gather other Holocaust victims and help them get to safety.

 

God, how many times has Cas protected him? How many times has Cas openly rebelled against his own kind, for Dean?

 

Dean knows – _knows_ – if Cas had taken a female vessel, he’d have been all over her years ago. It didn’t take him long to get into Anna’s pants; granted, he _liked_ Anna, at least until she went all Glenn Close on him. But Anna was as genderless as Cas is now, even though she chose to take a female form and be born as a human woman.

 

But Cas is male. And Dean is most certainly not gay.

 

Jimmy Novak maybe long gone, but that sinewy body, the trench coat, those blue eyes… they’re as much a part of Cas now as his Grace is. He maybe genderless in his true form, but Castiel on Earth is undeniably _male_.

 

And Dean can admit to himself – he wants more.

 

It’s not just a matter of grabbing Cas’s dick or stroking him to completion and teaching him the wonders of sex. It’s more to do with waking up to the warmth of Cas snuggled next to him, with seeing the corner of those blue eyes crinkle in delight as the angel discovers the joys of being human, with fucking cuddling in bed and horsing around in the Bunker.

 

It has to do with maybe even raising a family with him.

 

The last time he felt anything like this was with Lisa and even then, the apple-pie life didn’t take. Because, with her, part of him was missing and it wasn’t just Sam. Dean’s a _hunter_ ; even if he doesn’t gank as many mothers as he used to, it’s instinct now, part of who he is. It was a part of himself that just didn’t fit into Lisa and Ben’s lives.

 

Cas fits. In every damn way… except he’s a _male_ , and Dean is not gay.

 

But like he said… he wants more.

 

He’s always wanted more.

 

(He’s still not gay, though.)


	5. Chapter 4

Their first Christmas together happens in Amsterdam, almost an entire month before the day itself arrives. The Netherlands have an annual tradition of celebrating the arrival of _Sinterklass_ on the day prior to Saint Nicholas Day, in the beginning of December and the actual fun begins mid-November with the Santa look-alike’s arrival into the country from Spain.

 

They spend hours standing in the crowd, awaiting the arrival of the fat man in a red coat. Dean thinks it’s stupid – Christmas really isn’t a thing they do and even the angel by his side agrees. But Sam flashed those damn puppy eyes and here they are, being trampled by an exuberant crowd that is hemming and hawing at the sight of the white-bearded dude hauling his fat ass down the side of his steamboat.

 

Before Dean can protest it, Sam goes and signs them up to be Sinterklass’s damn helpers. The elder Winchester is pissed; he’s just about to rip his brother a new one when Cas intervenes.

 

“What does this… helping… entail, exactly?” he asks with a frown and Sam turns that stupid grin to the angel.

 

“See, from now until the 6th of December, when the children all open the presents, Sinterklass is supposed to go around the country, visiting schools, hospitals and places like that to meet with the kids,” Sam explains excitedly. “And then, he climbs down the chimney and leaves them gifts, which they open on the morning of 6th, on Saint Nicholas Day.”

 

“Going down the chimney sounds like a dirty job, Sam,” Cas comments, “Why can't we just leave the presents in their homes?”

 

Dean snorts, “That’s what the _kids_ believe, Einstein,” he huffs, turning to Sam. “Dude, you can't expect me to dress up like a fat man in a red coat-”

 

“Dean, we’re gonna visit kids in the hospital,” Sam’s voice turns pleading, “Kids with cancer and HIV and who knows what else. I know Christmas isn’t exactly… well, our thing… but, I just thought…”

 

He trails off with a slight flush. Dean sighs. Damn the kid and his ability to push his buttons; he’s Dean friggin’ Winchester – he doesn’t do this visiting the hospital and bringing smiles to people’s faces. He’s not Mary Poppins.

 

But Cas is, apparently.

 

Because the angel insists that they follow through with the plan and volunteer to be Sinterklass’s helpers and distribute the presents to the sick children.

 

“I was under the impression that Christmas was meant to be a family affair,” he tells them. “One where the joy of giving and life is spread, no?”

 

Dean just shrugs, throwing his arms up in defeat.

 

And so they spend the rest of November in Amsterdam, being Sinterklass’s helpers and traveling the city in those ridiculous carriages and getting dressed up in the gayest outfits Dean has ever seen.

 

It’s on one such occasion that they meet Christianne, a seven year old girl diagnosed with leukemia, admitted into a hospital that runs a charity program. She’s in her second round of chemotherapy and looks up at Dean, all wide-eyed innocence and hope when he brings in a huge sack of gifts with a loud grunt.

 

Cas follows him with his own sack, which he sets down next to the hunter just as the little girl runs up to him with a big grin. Dean looks down at when he feels the light tug on his pants.

 

“Zwarte Piet?” she asks hesitantly and he can feel her breathless anticipation.

 

Oh, and he’s also dressed as Sinterklass’s crazy ass right-hand, Zwarte Piet, the one who handles the _naughty_ kids. Figures that he gets stuck with the kids with the bad attitude.  (He doesn’t mind… much. He was one of ‘em himself, after all.)

 

The hunter shoots the angel a helpless look, mouthing _help me_. The language barrier has been a bitch this past month, given that Cas has to translate everything for him and Sam each time they make a stop at a hospital.

 

Cas moves in to help and bends down, offering the child a small smile.

 

“ _Heb je een goed meisje geweest_?” he mutters and the girl nods emphatically.

 

“ _Ja_!” she cries, clutching at the little doll she’s carrying tightly.

 

Cas tilts his head towards Dean and then mutters something in her ear that has her giggling. Without another word, she pulls him down to her, pecking his cheek and then racing off, leaving behind a bemused hunter and angel.

 

“What was that?” Dean asks and Cas shrugs, getting up slowly. There’s a quiet smile on his face, one that he’s never seen before, and for some strange reason, it makes his heart thud against his chest.

 

“I asked her if she’d been a good girl,” he tells him. “She responded in the affirmative.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes.

 

“I figured, genius,” he snarks, “I meant after that.”

 

Cas shrugs, the mysterious smile on his face growing wider. “I just told her that Zwarte Piet isn’t going to come anywhere close to her since she’d been a good girl.”

 

Dean eyes him suspiciously but doesn’t say anything more. They spend the rest of the day leaving behind sacks of gifts in different wings of the hospital for the kids and when they get back to their hotel, the hunter has to admit to himself that it feels good.

 

A couple days later, on the morning of the 6th when the kids open the presents, they’re back at the pediatric cancer ward again and Christianne runs up to them, a wide smile on her face.

 

“Piet!” she greets Dean loudly and before he knows it, he’s been turned into a living cushion, the seven year old cuddling against him. Cas is watching them both a wide grin on his face, and behind him, Sam is snorting away to glory, hazel eyes promising a world of teasing later.

 

Dean’s blinking, wondering what the hell is going on, when an older nurse approaches them. She looks to be in her mid-forties and has a kindly expression about her, shaking hands with Cas and Sam before turning to Dean.

 

“You are Americans, yes?” she asks and Sam nods. She sighs, smiling widely. Her English is only slightly accented and it’s better than most people they’ve met so far.

 

“Christanne has taken to you,” she nods to the girl who is nuzzling her nose into Dean’s neck. The hunter squirms, uncomfortable, but doesn’t pull away. Honestly, it’s kinda cute, if a little annoying the way Sam keeps smirking.

 

“I told her that Zwarte Piet isn’t always mean to naughty kids,” Cas tells them then, “That he’s often sad because kids are afraid of him.”

 

Dean sputters, glaring at his friend. Sam chortles out loud and it’s all Dean can do to stop himself from kicking his brother’s ass in front of the kid.

 

“Sa-sad?!” Dean mutters, “I’ll show you sad, you smug son of a-”

 

He breaks off as Christianne pulls away, a look of adorable confusion on her face. She reaches out and pats his cheek, kicking his stomach lightly, letting him to put her down. He does so (and he will deny his reluctance to do so till the day he dies) and she runs to Cas, tugging on his leg until the angel bends down. Placing a quick kiss on his cheek, she runs back to the nurse, who ruffles her hair and picks her up.

 

“Thank you,” she tells them, her voice thick with emotion. “A lot of these children… they don’t really have families. The State Sinterklass is a big deal to them.”

 

“What…what happened to her?” Sam gestures to the seven year old she’s holding. The nurse sighs and sets her down, murmuring something to her. The kid nods and runs back to where the other kids are gathered in a circle around the sacks of gifts Dean remembers leaving for them a few days ago.

 

“Her mother was killed,” the nurse – Carmine, her name tag reads – says softly. “And her father left her behind to find his wife’s killer. She ended up in an orphanage and was diagnosed with leukemia a couple months ago.”

 

Dean’s heart stutters at the story; mother killed, father out for revenge… goddamn, his eyes are blurry as he takes in the bright laughter, the innocent smile and the wide-eyed innocence of a child who’s lost so much.

 

It hits too close to home.

 

Sam sidles up to him and meets his eyes – Dean sees the same look reflected on his brother’s face, and for a moment, it’s just them again, in a crappy motel room, when the kid Sam hands him the gift that was meant for dad, saying that he loves Dean and he wants him to have it instead.

 

God, when was the last time they celebrated Christmas, _actually_ celebrated?

 

The thought vanishes when he feels Cas squeeze his shoulder hesitantly. Straightening up, he offers the angel a nod, before turning to Carmine.

 

“She’s a good kid,” he tell her, voice rough and she smiles.

 

“Yes she is,” she agrees. “Thank you for everything.”

 

Before he can protest the gratitude – they’ve done jack shit, really – she turns around and walks away.

 

And they have nothing more to do in the pediatric oncology wing which mandates the return back to their hotel in a somber silence.

 

On Christmas morning, it’s just the three of them and their little, stupid Christmas tree that Sam insisted they put up. Cas makes a hilarious face at the angel that Dean arranges on top of the fake-tree, but the hunter refuses to take it down.

 

They don’t exchange gifts, but they spend the rest of the day drinking together. In the evening, they go to visit Christianne in the hospital and Carmine smiles at them, waving quietly in greeting as the seven year old greets them with a loud squeal, pushing herself against Dean with all the enthusiasm of a child.

 

And as he holds her close, breathing in her little girl smell and nodding along to her babbling chatter, even if he doesn’t understand a goddamned word, Dean admits the truth to himself.

 

He wants to have all of it – Christmas with his brother, kissing Cas under a mistletoe, and waking up to the joy of presents and warmth and smiles.

 

His heart aches when he pulls back but he keeps the smile on his face as he settles in next to Christianne, ready to spend the rest of the evening with her and her friends.

 

It’s the best Christmas in a long time, even if it isn’t the one he wants.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS (Taken entirely from my friend, Google Translator, so excuse mistakes! :)) -
> 
> “Heb je een goed meisje geweest?” 
> 
> (Have you been a good girl?)
> 
> “Ja!”
> 
> (Yes.)


	6. Chapter 5

The first time Dean kisses Castiel is on goddamned New Year’s Eve and they’re in Naples, Italy. The hunter doesn’t know when his life turned into a friggin’ soap opera, but that’s exactly what this is.

 

Charlie, in typical Bradbury fashion, went ahead and skipped all the usual hotspots in Italy for tourists. Rome and Milan were bypassed in favor of Naples, because the redhead wanted fireworks and fireworks she was getting.

 

Or she should have gotten, but now it’s Dean, Sam and Cas who receive it in her stead.

 

So Dean doesn’t complain – _much_ – when Sam kicks them outta bed at the ass-crack of dawn on Boxing Day to get back on the road. They stayed up late on Christmas, drinking and just talking, and now, the elder Winchester’s head is pounding like a bitch. He grumps at his brother and altogether ignores the angel’s attempt to talk to him as he gulps down his coffee.

 

Cas huffs, rolling his eyes and making a bitch face that definitely learnt from Sam before pressing his usual two fingers to Dean’s forehead.

 

The pounding magically disappears and the hunter finds himself utterly clear-headed and wide awake. He grins sheepishly at his friend who just glares at him.

 

“Thanks, Cas,” he mutters, getting into the Impala. Shrugging, the angel takes his customary backseat and Sam rolls his eyes at his brother’s idiocy.

 

Charlie, knowing Dean all too well, made sure that the Impala would definitely be part of the trip. Places where they can't drive, Cas and his angel express come in handy, transporting the Winchester brothers and their beloved car to their destination. But there’s something to be said about getting the windows down, driving along the lanes of Europe with the music loud enough to deafen and for once, having no case at the end of their journey.

 

They don’t have to worry about research, they don’t have to call ahead and pose as law enforcement and they don’t have to give two shits about anything but enjoying themselves. It’s an exhilarating feeling.

 

Naples is a gorgeous city, quiet in its understated beauty. Despite the fact that the city is absolutely crowded and everyone is excited for the fireworks, Dean likes it. He doesn’t know if it’s because Charlie hasn’t booked them into a hotel, but a tiny little cottage right out of some misplaced fairytale or not, but he likes it nonetheless.

 

Hunters don’t _get_ happily ever afters, but here, away from the blood and gore, where there is peace and warmth, it seems almost possible.

 

So – again – he doesn’t protest when Sam drags them to meet with their landlords who have their own cottage just behind the one that the hunters and their angel are renting.

 

The husband greets them with a kind smile on his face. He looks like an old grizzled bear, all sharp lines and salt-and-pepper hair and tired eyes and Dean senses the quiet exhaustion he carries around. It makes his chest tighten as he shakes Antonio’s hand and introduces himself.

 

“And who is this?” steel-grey eyes peer at Cas from behind rectangular frames and Dean hurries to introduce his friend.

 

“This is Cas,” he motions for the angel to come forward. Cas moves in – still awkward with new people, even after all these years – to shake the man’s hand, when his wife wanders in.

 

“This is your other brother?” Antonio – Toni, as he insisted they call him and damn if Dean has never met a bigger Italian cliché – asks and Sam snorts.

 

“Hell no,” he responds before Dean can get a word in. The green-eyed hunter frowns; yes, he definitely doesn’t think of Cas as a _brother_ , but he’s a friggin’ Winchester in all but name and his non-platonic feelings towards his angel aren’t something that Sam shares, right?

 

Right.

 

Cas blinks and shrugs.

 

“But you’re all Winchesters?” Toni frowns at them, glancing at the papers in his hands. The reservation Charlie made was for three Winchesters and a Bradbury, and though they’ve called ahead to explain that she’s no longer with them (and wasn’t _that_ a painful conversation?), they didn’t explain the three Winchesters part.

 

“Uh, we’re… well…” Dean stammers and it’s at this exact moment that his life turns into a bloody soap opera.

 

Because Toni’s wife swoops in and grabs Dean in a tight hug, pulling his face to her ample bosom and patting his hair maternally.

 

“My _Luigi_!” she exclaims and holy hell, what the _fuck_?!

 

Pulling back, she places a loud, smacking kiss to the corner of his mouth before turning to Cas and yanking him in too.

 

“Are you blind, Toni?” she tuts affectionately over their shoulders at her husband, “They’re obviously _married_. We were there, remember? Luigi and Mario, my babies!”

 

What-the-fuck-? Did he get stuck in a game of Super Mario and didn’t know about it?

 

Toni looks stricken, but simply sighs and gently pulls his wife off Dean and the angel. She struggles, pouting and scowling at him.

 

“Why don’t you get them something to drink, Mary-love?” he murmurs. She brightens and claps her hands in delight, puttering off in the direction of the kitchen. Toni turns to the three of them, who are just stand there, gobsmacked and utterly confused.

 

“I apologize for her,” he tells them softly. Fuck, are those _tears_ in his eyes? Dean’s stomach clenches with a strange unease.

 

“Dude, what-?” he begins, but when Toni sighs, he deflates, simply raising an eyebrow.

 

Before he can explain, however, Mary returns, all beaming smiles and wide eyes, and _damn_ it, Dean’s a fucking sap, because he really can't resist the way she pats the seat next to her and strokes his hair affectionately. It’s just a name, really, but… _Mary_ … blonde hair, blue eyes, and that wide smile – he really can't help himself.

 

She chatters away about Luigi and Mario and how beautiful their small wedding was even if gay marriage isn’t legal yet and how much in love they both are. It doesn’t take them long to figure out that she’s mistaken Dean and Cas for these two men in her life, and it’s sad enough that Sam, the giant girl that he is, is tearing up at it.

 

It’s only when she retreats to the kitchen to make them dinner (they’ve been invited and none of them had the guts to say no) that Toni finally has a chance to explain.

 

“Luigi was our son,” he says quietly, grey eyes turning glassy from memories. “And Mario was his lover. They grew up together and admitted their love when they were at University. Gay marriage isn’t legal here in Italy, but… we had a small ceremony and… it was…” he sighs.

 

“Wh-what happened?” Sam ventures.

 

Toni sighs, removing his specs and slowly rubbing them. The glasses are clean, but it’s clear to Dean that it’s the motion itself that soothes the old man and he keeps his mouth shut when he sees those hands trembling.

 

“The-they passed,” he answers, voice sharp and pained and damn, but Dean knows that feeling. “Almost a year ago now. The trauma of the incident… it left a mark on Mary.”

 

He offers them a tremulous smile before turning his gaze to where his wife is in the kitchen, busy with the stove.

 

“Is… is she always this way?” Cas murmurs.

 

Toni shakes his head. “Not entirely,” he responds, “She has entire days of lucidity, where she’s normal… and then…”

 

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence and Dean can't help but swallow the lump in his throat. Because, yeah, he can see how painful it must be for this old man, who’s lost both his son and his wife in one go. The latter, he gets back occasionally, only to lose again and again, and still, he holds on tight to those few moments when he can have her all to himself.

 

It’s entirely too reminiscent of those days just after Mom died. Dean lost Mommy _and_ Daddy in that time – Mom, to the fire and fucking Azazel, but Dad, who _should_ have been there, who was once fun and baseball and _Daddy_ \- him, he lost to revenge and anger and madness. Occasionally, a glimpse of the Daddy he’d once been would show up and Dean clung – _hard_ – to those moments, hoping against hope that they would return, that once the yellow-eyed bastard was dead, they could somehow, magically, return to that old relationship.

 

Dean understands.

 

Which is why when Toni asks him and Cas to continue the charade of being a couple, he simply shrugs and nods, leaving Sam speechless and Cas squinting in surprise.

 

“Thank you,” Toni whispers, shaking, “New Year’s… the fireworks… Luigi loves- _loved_ them… just for that… thank you.”

 

Sam simply reaches out and grabs a hold of the man’s trembling shoulders, offering him what silent comfort he can. Cas turns to Dean, the question dying on his lips when the hunter shakes his head. He’s surprised when Dean takes his hand and interlaces their fingers together, but doesn’t say anything, just going along with it for now.

 

Dinner is fucking delicious. For all that Mary is… well, not right, she can _cook_. It’s a simple affair – just pasta – but Dean damn near moans when the first bite hits his tongue and the flavors explode in his mouth.

 

But that’s not even the best part. Throughout the meal, Dean’s hand is interlocked with Cas’s, given that Mary is sitting right next to them, beaming at them both. And Dean will never admit it, but the feeling of the angel’s long, slim fingers wrapped in his own sends his pulse racing a mile a minute.

 

Fuck. He’s turning into a goddamned teenage girl. Fucking Cas.

 

_Fucking Cas_ … there’s an image he really needs to keep shoved further down into the corners of his mind.

 

When dinner finally ends, Dean doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or relived. Sam makes their excuses to their hosts as they get up and the elder Winchester has no choice but to let go of Cas’s hand, the angel shooting him an inscrutable look, as though he’s trying to peer into Dean’s skull.

 

It’s an expression the hunter hasn’t seen in some time and he shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably. Shaking hands with Antonio, he turns to follow his brother back into the night when a soft pressure on his arm stops him.

 

Mary is standing behind him, her beautiful, wrinkled face scrunched up into a tired expression that looks almost childlike.

 

“Lu-Luigi?” her voice is shaking and her eyes are glassy, and fuck, but Dean knows – _knows_ – that she is hovering between reality and her own delusion and his heart breaks. Over her shoulder he meets Toni’s teary eyes. The old man looks broken as he takes in his wife’s sorry state and before he knows it, Dean has her wrapped in his embrace, hugging her tightly to him.

 

He runs a gentle hand through graying blonde hair and presses a kiss to the corner of her temple, offering Toni a tremulous smile over her shoulder when the old man hiccups around a sob and mouths a _thank you._

 

“G’night, Ma-Mama,” Dean stumbles over the word, not even knowing where the hell it’s coming from, but the bright smile that upturns the corner of the old lady’s face tells him it’s the right thing to say. Goddamned _hell_ , he sees another Mary behind his eyes, all sass and warmth and more love than she knew what to do with, and it’s the thought of her now that has him gently rubbing away her tears and kissing her cheek as sweetly as he knows how.

 

She runs a hand down the length of his face, before looking over his shoulder and calling out.

 

“You take care of my boy, now,” her voice is firm, filled with the conviction of a mother and Dean turns to see the angel watching them quietly.

 

His heart thuds against his ribcage at the implications and he gently untangles himself from Mary, ready to walk away, refusing to meet Cas’s piercing blue gaze.

 

He freezes in his tracks when the angel answers the diminutive old woman.

 

“I will,” it is nothing short of a vow, filled with an undercurrent of…of…something… _everything_ , that terrifies Dean. It makes his world shrink down to the size of just his friend’s rough timbre, to the size of those blue, blue eyes and the scorching heat of a gaze he cannot meet right now. So Dean does what he always does best.

 

He runs.

 

And fucking buries himself beneath all the fluffy pillows and comforters like a prepubescent girl whose crush spoke to her for the first time.

 

Fuck him and his ever fucking life.

 

Morning comes way too quickly; he’s up all night, tossing and turning. His stupid brain refuses to shut off – it’s as though a dam has broken, allowing all those quiet desires and wants he’s kept buried in the deepest corners of his mind to flood through. He’s never let himself just simply _touch_ Cas before like last night; the only times he’s hugged the angel has been on those near death experiences and even those had been short lived moments that he’s ruthlessly kept under lock and key.

 

Last night though… the simple contact, just holding hands with no other motive than to hold his hand… damn, but the touch grounded him. And now, Dean can't keep the image of that hand, those fucking fingers running over the length of his own body, and _fuck_ , when did he turn into such a goddamned girl?!

 

There’s a hard knock on the door and Sam goes to open it, looking tired and unkempt himself. Mary just hustles in, chattering away happily, going straight to where Dean is propped up on the table, head buried within his arms as he grumps into the hardwood.

 

“Luigi!” she’s beaming, but it’s too friggin’ early for this and Dean refuses to look up from his perch.

 

But Mary isn’t one to be outdone. Without so much as a warning, she just leans over his bent shoulder and pinches the side of his belly _hard_.

 

Dean’s loud yelp of pain is practically a shriek and Sam howls in laughter as the hunter jumps up in shock, rubbing his tummy. Turning around, he glares at the old woman who meets his gaze defiantly, hands on her hips and lips pursed.

 

“What the hell?!” Dean exclaims. Mary snorts and leans in to poke at his belly a second time; Dean dodges, throwing his younger brother a harsh glare as Sam falls to the couch in laughter.

 

“It is morning, Luigi,” Mary mutters. “On New Year’s Eve. Come, there’s things to do today!”

 

“It’s 9 a.m.,” Dean protests, leaning back. “Shut it, bitch,” he shoots at the younger Winchester who is chortling in unrestrained glee. The next moment, Mary steps in and whacks his arm, a stern expression on her face.

 

“Language,” she tells him pertly and Dean blinks in shock. Sam’s laughing his ass off again and he just sighs, rolling his eyes to the skies. What did he do to deserve this so goddamned early in the morning?

 

He needs coffee. Now.

 

Right on cue, Cas appears, holding two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. He beelines towards Dean, handing him a mug before offering the second to Sam, who takes it with a smirk on his face. Ignoring his brother, the hunter simply breathes in the fresh aroma of the Italian roast, mentally drawing hearts around his angel for the brew that smells like absolute heaven at the moment.

 

“Aren’t you going to thank your lover, Luigi?” Mary asks, a knowing glint in her eye. Dean looks up with a scowl to see her watching him with a soft smirk and holds back a groan. Behind him, Sam doesn’t even try, snorting into his coffee, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

 

“Yeah, Dean,” he jumps in, “Thank your _lover_.”

 

Dean is a moment away from pummeling his brother when the angel walks back into the living room from the kitchen where he’d gone to retrieve his own mug of coffee, holding it with both hands. Mary pushes him insistently, cocking her head to the side as her eyes narrow in anticipation.

 

“Luigi,” she says sternly, “Come now. You must show your man that you appreciate him and all that he does for you.”

 

Sam’s gleeful grin grates on Dean’s nerves as he shakes his head at Cas who simply looks confused.

 

“Dean?”

 

Mary’s eyes are soft, kind and she’s looking at him expectantly. Cas comes to stand next to her, offering her a quiet smile and she pats his cheek warmly.

 

How would Mary _Winchester_ have reacted to his angel?

 

The thought pops out of nowhere. _Mom_ … mom would have loved him, Dean thinks.

 

Maybe it’s that thought that propels him forward. Maybe it’s the sight of Mary watching them both, clear affection warring with nostalgic pain in her eyes. Maybe it’s Sam chuckling his way through his coffee and maybe it’s the idea of New Year’s Eve in a different continent, where the rules are different, where Dean’s not a hunter and Cas is not an angel and they’re just family.

 

Maybe it’s the adorable head tilt of Cas’s that’s as familiar to Dean as the angel’s blue eyes and that stupid trench coat.

 

And maybe it’s none of these things.

 

Dean doesn’t care.

 

And fuck, he’s _not_ blushing as he leans in and places a quick kiss to Cas’s cheek, barely more than a light peck.

 

“Thanks, babe,” he mutters, turning away quickly. Cas is startled; he pulls back, brow furrowing and jaw dropping as he stares at Dean in a way he hasn’t in a while, like he’s trying to peer into his skull.

 

The hunter doesn’t meet his eyes, turning his gaze instead to Mary, who’s beaming. Leaning in, she cups his face with both his hands and kisses his cheek softly.

 

“Come, boys,” she announces. “We will spend the day at the docks. It’s it New Year’s Eve and Luigi, you do love fireworks, don’t you, love?”

 

The endearment sends a quiet agony running through Dean, but he forces a smile on to his face and nods. This was what they’ve promised Toni after all, and he doesn’t fucking know how he’s gonna pretend to be Cas’s… _lover_ …the whole fucking day, but he wants to. God fucking dammit, he _wants_ to.

 

And he _knows_ it’s not just to please the old woman.

 

Mary pats his cheek and pinches his side again, gentler this time. He hisses, rolling his eyes at a still grinning Sam and moves in the direction of his room as the old woman bustles about, wandering into the kitchen and chattering away about breakfast and the picnic they’ll have at the docks while they wait for the fireworks to start.

 

Dean just needs away for a moment.

 

So he hides in his shower, letting the hot water sluice over his naked form, closing his eyes and offering his face up to the tiny rivulets that splinter as they hit his flushed skin. In his mind, he can see the angel’s surprised expression, those wide cerulean eyes and the quiet question within them that Dean refuses to answer even now.

 

And before he knows it, he’s got a hand wrapped around his cock which is standing erect at the picture of Cas offering him a sweet, tender smile instead. If only the angel had tilted his head slightly to the side, if only he’d let Dean get closer, if only… _if only…_

Dean comes – _hard_ – and his jizz paints white the walls of the tiny shower in the room that he took as his own for the short stay in Naples, in another continent, where he and Cas are playing pretend house.

 

Well, shit.

 

When he finally reemerges, Cas is nowhere to be seen and neither is Mary. Sam though, is waiting for his big brother, eyebrow raised and a quiet smirk playing on the corner of his lips.

 

“Can it, Samantha,” he grunts before the younger Winchester can get a word in and Sam shrugs.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” he grins, “Jerk,” he adds for good measure and Dean just groans, yanking on his shoes.

 

An hour later, they’re at the docks, Mary chattering away excitedly and Toni smiling at her softly. A sense of excitement is pervading the entire city and the crowds are milling about excitedly. Apparently the idea to spend time together under the sun while waiting for the fireworks to begin is quite the popular idea and Dean heaves a sigh of relief that Mary is too distracted by the crowd to focus on him and Cas.

 

His relief is short lived.

 

Toni and Mary lead them down the side of an offbeat path, maneuvering them away from the crowds until it’s only the five of them walking down to the waterfront in the mid-morning sun. The older couple is holding hands, Mary leaning into her husband and for a moment, Dean’s heart aches with memories of a Mom and Dad that never got the chance to grow old together.

 

The moment is broken when they come to a stop in front of a yacht, anchored at the edge of the water.

 

“Is-is that-?” Sam breathes and Toni offers him a quiet smile and nod.

 

“Come, boys!” Mary claps her hands, beaming widely, “We will have lunch on board!”

 

Before any of them can say anything, she’s clambered on to the yacht with a nimbleness that belies her age and vanishes inside, hips swaying from side to side as she hums happily to herself in Italian.

 

Toni sighs, rubbing his eyes.

 

“The yacht…” he hesitates, “It was a gift… Mario and Luigi… they worked hard, saved up money so they could give it to us for our thirtieth anniversary.”

 

There is a sense of lingering sadness behind his eyes that he visibly pushes away and officially invites them onboard.

 

Dean’s leery of spending an entire day on top of a floating vessel, but he has to admit that it’s better than a fucking airplane. Besides, the trip to Europe itself had been on a ship and he didn’t get seasick then, so he reasons that he’s safe enough for now. With a quick shrug, he joins the elderly couple and holds a hand out to Sam and Cas to pull them up.

 

Cas raises an eyebrow at the proffered hand. Dean flushes – the angel doesn’t need the boost up, but Mary’s watching them fondly and they’re supposed to be a couple or whatever and this is what a good husband does, isn’t it?

 

That’s his story and he’ll stick to it, thank you very much.

 

He’s been a pro at lying to himself since he was a kid, after all.

 

They spend the rest of the day lazing around on the boat ( _“It’s a yacht, Dean, yacht!”_ ), lying on the deck with fucking apple martinis and finger foods that Mary insists on feeding them every half an hour.

 

Oh and Dean and Cas are cuddled up together on a single seat, the angel’s back ramrod stiff where he’s lying propped up against Dean’s chest. The hunter is torn between enjoying this and being terrified; his palms are sweating and he can hear the blood pounding through his veins, but the scent of Cas – of thunderstorms and power and earth – is familiar and soothing in the same way Sam’s bitchface is.

 

Mary is cooing over them from her perch next to Toni and Sam’s sniggers have long since turned into full-blown peals of laughter. Toni is simply smiling at them benevolently and Dean mutters a quiet, _fuck it_ , before he wraps his arms around Cas and drags him back against him, resting his chin on the angel’s shoulder.

 

“Dean?”

 

He can feel the rumble of Cas’s confused voice travel up the length of that gorgeous chest and it sends shivers down his spine.

 

(Okay, he’s growing a fucking vagina. This is all Cas’s fucking fault.)

 

“Mary’s watchin’ us,” he mutters in reply. Cas frowns, but lets it go, sinking back against his friend. Dean’s surprised but he’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth and instead just nuzzles into Cas’s side, ignoring his look of surprise and Mary’s quiet clap of delight.

 

“Such handsome boys!” she exclaims happily, “So, so in love… just six when you first met… I knew even then, that you were meant for one another… always together, always fighting and arguing but never letting go…”

 

She trails off, gaze turning distant. “They were meant for each other…” her eyes are tearing up and Toni runs a tender hand over her shoulder as she buries her face in his chest, bony frame shuddering quietly.

 

The way she straddles that delicate line between reality and fantasy is painful to watch.

 

“Hey Cas?” Sam’s voice is quiet ; Dean turns to see his brother watching the couple with a concerned expression on his face.

 

“Yes, Sam?”

 

“Can't you heal her?”

 

Damn the kid and his stupid puppy eyes and need to make the world a better place. Dean’s been wondering that himself, but to see the two like this, cuddled and mourning the loss of their sons – it hurts, brings back too many memories he’d rather keep buried.

 

Cas shakes his head mournfully.

 

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he murmurs, “I don’t think I can. Mary… she hasn’t been externally injured, Sam. It’s her soul that’s hurting, not her body.”

 

“And you can't mojo her better?” Dean grunts. Cas tilts his head to offer the hunter a harsh glare.

 

“No, Dean,” he grumbles, “I can’t _mojo_ her better. She’s the one who has _chosen_ to deal with her pain in this manner and _she’s_ the only one who can let the delusion go.”

 

They fall silent at the implication of that and if Dean’s arms around the angel tighten marginally, then he’ll blame it on Mary and her return to role-playing when she coos over them and insists on taking pictures. Cas does not protest, though he does do that whole staring-into-Dean’s-skull again, which the hunter pointedly ignores.

 

Mary insists that they watch the fireworks from here, on the boat, since they’ll have a better view and they won’t be stampeded into the crowd that usually goes mad at this time. Dean agrees wholeheartedly; the solitude of the place is beginning to get to him and he’s honest to god _enjoying_ this whole shiz.

 

The lightshow begins soon after the sun sets and Dean has to admit that it’s fucking gorgeous. The dark velvet of the night sky is a perfect offset for the sparkly flowers that light it up and that’s a shitty description of the beauty in front of him, but Dean’s not exactly a poet. That’s more Sam’s area of expertise.

 

Speaking of which…

 

Sam’s fucking asking for it really, with that long Rapunzel mane that he’s so carefully preserving for all posterity.

 

So when the whizzing rocket falls on to their yacht, precisely where Sam was standing a second before Cas knocked him out of the way, Dean can only laugh his ass off – the younger Winchester’s hair is singed and is smoking. _Literally_.

 

The resultant yowl of indignation that his brother lets out is music to Dean’s ears as Mary rushes to pour water on the Sasquatch’s charred hair. Sam glares at him, sputtering out mouthfuls of water.

 

“Looks like I don’t have to give you a haircut after all, Sammy,” he grins at his younger brother, who glares at him before forlornly looking at his sheared locks.

 

“This isn’t funny, Dean!” he snaps and Dean rolls on the deck of the boat, clutching at his stomach, because it is too funny.

 

Charlie would have loved this, wouldn’t she?

 

He’s almost surprised to realize that the thought doesn’t send as much of a fissure through his heart as it once did. With another chortle, he just pulls his brother into a tight headlock, knuckling his fist down on the nerd’s singed hair, even as the younger Winchester kicks him in the shin in protest.

 

“Let me go, Dean!” Sam struggles and Mary is laughing to the side, dainty shoulders shaking lightly, leaning into Toni who’s also chuckling. Cas is standing there to the side, a small grin on his face, his blue eyes twinkling brightly and it’s in the moment that Dean can finally admit it to himself.

 

He _wants_ Cas. As so much more than just his best friend – as his partner, as his lover and whatever the fuck else there is. He wants him because… he is fucking in _love_ with him.

 

The countdown begins and in the distance, they can hear the crowd screaming and yelling the numbers. The excitement is palpable and Mary claps her hands happily, resting her weight on Toni who rubs her shoulders with a gentle smile.

 

“Five, four, three-” Sam’s joined in, hazel eyes wide and happy and Dean’s heart aches with a bittersweet joy to see his baby brother so excited. After all the bull they’ve been through, there’s nothing Sammy deserves more than this.

 

“Two, one-” Dean joins in, watching as Cas’s eyes crinkle and a his face splits into a wide grin.

 

“ _Happy New Year!_ ” Sam yells out into the sky, laughing loudly and pulling his brother into a hug. For once, Dean is unrestrained in his glee – he waves a big middle finger at the voice in his head whispering at him to stop with the chick flick moments – as he hugs his brother back tightly.

 

The embrace lasts shorter than he would like it to; Sam pulls back and moves over to hug Mary and Toni, looking strange with his singed hair and floppy ears. Dean chuckles at the sight, before moving to the angel, who is watching them quietly as always, eyes twinkling merrily.

 

“Happy New Year, Cas,” he offers, holding out a hand. Cas looks at it and then at him, shaking his head before he takes it, squeezing it tightly.

 

“Happy New Year, Dean,” he murmurs and the rough timbre of his voice contains every promise they’ve made between them, every unsaid thing that resonates no matter how much Dean tries to keep it quiet.

 

“Aren’t you going to kiss your husband, Luigi?”

 

_Fucking hell._

 

Mary is watching them with a slight frown on her face. Her eyes are glassy and Dean _knows_ , without a hint of a doubt, that she’s once again teetering on the edge, seeing him and Cas, but not really looking at them.

 

She’s seeing her son and his lover.

 

And it’s that thought – that she misses them, so much, even after all this time, that she’s lost in a delusion, chasing after a dead past, _just like Dad did_ – that pushes him over the edge himself.

 

Fuck it.

 

He yanks Cas close to himself and leans in. For a moment, they hover, suspended in reality, blue eyes clashing with green, before Dean breathes in deeply and just goes for it.

 

Cas’s lips are soft, warm and the angel tastes lightly of the rain and the earth. Dean pecks him, once, twice and then pulls back, simply sharing the same space as the startled angel, who is simply staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. Dean meets his gaze head on, heart hammering in his chest, blood thundering in his ears, hoping he can see all that the hunter will never be able to say.

 

Sam gasps sharply.

 

And the moment, as precious as glass, shatters just as easily.

 

Dean jumps back as though burnt, pushing the angel away harshly, ignoring Mary’s slight protest and turns his back on all of them, directing his gaze to the sky, where the lightshow is still going on.

 

What the flying _fuck_ did he just do?


	7. Chapter 6

 

The first time they fuck, they are in Belfast, in Northern Ireland and it’s both the best and the worst experience of Dean’s life.

 

It goes without saying that things between them have been… _weird_ … since their kiss in Naples. Toni saw them off with tears in his eyes, thanking them again and again for giving his wife one more Happy New Years.

 

Mary kissed all three of them goodbye, hugging them tight to her. Mario and Luigi had to promise to come back home very soon before she would let them go. Dean will never admit it openly, but saying goodbye to her broke his heart in a million different ways.

 

Even if she’s the reason his relationship with Cas is fucked up right now.

 

Who’s he kidding? _He_ fucked it up.

 

He went ahead and kissed his angel without even taking Cas’s feelings into consideration – Cas didn’t even kiss him back, for heaven’s sake! He simply froze in place, staring into Dean’s skull before the hunter had turned and fled, refusing to meet any of their eyes.

 

The tension has been unbearable since then. Sammy’s been eyeing him speculatively for the past few days, as they journeyed from Italy to the UK, hitting London first. Dean’s on pins and needles, waiting for his little brother to turn on his vagina and jump into a ‘feelings’ talk with him, but it hasn’t happened yet. And for all his protests against chick flick moments, Dean’s not too sure if he’s relieved or disappointed about that.

 

Still, all of that disappears the moment they step into London. He looks down at Charlie’s sheet in his hand, their handwriting criss-crossing and mixed and part of each other the way only family can be. In the corner, he sees the photoshopped picture of himself and Sam in front of the Big Ben.

 

After so many fucking years of wanting it, he’s _finally_ getting it. And it’s all thanks to one stubborn, fiery redhead who would not take no for an answer.

 

London is crowded and a bit too dull for Dean’s tastes, but he’s still pretty excited as they make their way into the Palace of Westminster along with the rest of the tourists. He’s grinning happily when they stop in front of the Big Ben.

 

Cas moves in close and Dean’s smile falters as the angel grabs the camera from him, hands brushing across his lightly. The hunter pulls back as if burned, yanking his arm away sharply, breathing in fast.

 

And if Cas looks hurt by his actions, he convinces himself that it has nothing to do with what happened in Naples.

 

( _God_ , he’s a little chickenshit.)

 

Sam frowns at him, opening his mouth, no doubt to scold him, but Dean intervenes with a loud grin that feels forced on his face. He grabs his little brother in a headlock and rubs his hand into his hair, which – _finally!_ – has been cut in the aftermath of the fireworks debacle.

 

“Smile, Sammy!” he exclaims and turns to Cas, who is still holding the camera with an injured look on his face. “C’mon Cas!” He motions for the angel to click the picture and Cas does it without saying anything, simply doing as directed.

 

A moment later, Sam reaches out and grabs the edge of Cas’s trench coat, reeling him in. Cas looks startled, but goes easily, falling on to Dean, who stumbles back but instinctively catches him. For a moment, hunter and angel stare at one another, pressed up close as they are before Dean jumps back, a flush climbing up the side of his neck.

 

“Sam, what the fuck-?” Dean curses at his younger brother, turning away to avoid Cas’s eyes.

 

“Uh, so-sorry,” Cas stammers, stepping back for a moment. Dean simply offers him a quiet nod, but Sam jumps in before he can say anything else.

 

“Family picture, Dean,” Sam insists. The elder Winchester blinks in surprise and Cas’s blue eyes pop wide in shock.

 

“Sa-Sam?” he asks breathlessly, voice turning husky and hesitant, and _fuck_ if that doesn’t send a pang through Dean’s heart, not that he’ll ever admit it out loud.

 

Sam smiles widely and despite his massive size, the stupid puppy eyes and floppy-eared grin just as adorable on him as they did when the little nerd was seven.

 

“C’mon, guys, we’ve a lot more places to see!” he claps his hands enthusiastically and turns around to find another tourist who might be willing to take their picture. Cas moves in close to Dean then, scowling when the hunter yelps and backs away.

 

“Cas!” he exclaims, “We’ve talked about this! Personal space?!”

 

It doesn’t matter how many times he uses that exact same line – his angel still hasn’t grasped the idea of what’s socially acceptable and what isn’t. A part of Dean hopes that he never will, but he squishes it down ruthlessly; now is not the time for his libido to get all revved up.

 

“My apologies,” Cas says stiffly, before moving back. He’s still frowning as he continues, “Dean, if you’re not comfortable with this picture, I can-”

 

Dean blinks. Wait, what the _heck_ -?

 

“Cas, man, no!” he protests, shaking his head emphatically. He pauses when the angel’s frown deepens and then sighs – clearly, Cas has mistaken his reticence.

 

“Cas,” he sighs, “You're family, you idiot. You’re practically a Winchester, man. I mean, how many times have you died and come back to life by now?”

 

He offers him a jaunty grin and almost whoops at the timid, answering smile that Cas’s lips curve into in response.

 

“Picture time!” Sam sing-songs as he grabs both of them in a hug, one arm going around each of their shoulders. Cas’s smile turns wider as he looks at the camera gratefully, as though he never expected to be included into this little family.

 

It makes Dean’s heart hurt, so he simply throws his own arm around them both. And if he squeezes the angel’s hip a little tighter where his forearm crosses his back, then no one else has to know.

 

Because this is _Cas_ and apparently, Dean’s more in love with him than he ever believed was possible.

 

Not that he will ever be able to say it out loud; Cas obviously doesn’t feel the same way. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have kissed the hunter back in Naples? Does Cas even _go_ for dudes? Last Dean heard, he lost his virginity to a monster in the shape of a friggin’ _chick_. For that matter, did Cas even understand the concept of sexuality?

 

Yeah, he’s so fucking not going there. He’s just going to pine from afar. He’s pathetic.

 

Or maybe go sit in a bar and find himself a good lay for the night – that should kick the need for the angel right out of his system.

 

(He knows it won’t, but a guy can hope.)

 

So when Sam finally corners him in a small bistro where they’re having breakfast a week later, it’s almost a fucking relief. Cas is still fast asleep in his room and hasn’t emerged yet. He doesn’t need to sleep as an angel, but he does enjoy it on occasion. And apparently, the younger Winchester has decided to take advantage of one of those rare occurrences.

 

They’re sitting at a table in the far corner, waiting for their food to arrive and Sam has his laptop open on the table. The digital camera they’ve been using through the entirety of their trip is attached to the Mac and like the giant girl he is, Sam is flipping through a slideshow of all their pictures and cooing over each one.

 

“God, Dean, look at this one!” he points to the picture of the three of them in front of the Big Ben, grinning widely. “I’m gettin’ it framed, man!”

 

Dean grunts, rolling his eyes. Still, he has to admit – the picture _does_ look good. The three of them are smiling without inhibition, for once. Cas’s eyes are sparkling and Sam looks like he’s been guzzling unicorn shit, his smile is that wide. Dean himself looks… well, he looks _happy_. And isn’t that a hoot?

 

This is the picture Charlie wanted. This is what she wanted to give him.

 

The knowledge is bittersweet, but he swallows hard against the lump in his throat. It’s not the family he thought he’d ever have – the picture is missing a few people, very much dead. Charlie, for one – Kevin and Bobby; Ellen and Jo _… Mom and Dad_.

 

But it’s _his_ – it’s what he has now – and that makes all the difference.

 

The smile freezes on his face when the next picture pops up.

 

It’s them.

 

In Naples.

 

_Kissing._

 

Cas’s expression is frozen, startled, blue eyes popping wide. Dean himself has his eyes screwed shut, lips innocently brushing against the angel’s. He can almost remember the way Cas tasted – of rainstorms and chestnuts, something vague, something powerful. It was only a chaste peck, but it was so much more.

 

The hunter can see the hint of desperation marring his every stance, written into his every muscle.

 

It fucking _hurts_.

 

Because Cas doesn’t seem to feel the same way – he’s staring at Dean with confusion, not desire.

 

Dean yelps, slamming the laptop shut and glaring at Sam, who is watching him with careful eyes.

 

“What the actual _fuck_ , Sam?” he snarls and the younger Winchester just shakes his head.

 

“Dean-” he begins, but Dean cuts him off.

 

“Why the _hell_ would you go and take a photo of-of…of _that_?!” he demands hotly, anger curling around the embarrassment that’s bubbling like acid within his stomach.

 

“Dean, it’s alright,” Sam murmurs softly, “I just-”

 

“Delete that shit,” he snaps. “Now.”

 

“No,” Sam meets his gaze defiantly. Dean goes slack jawed and stares at his brother who meets his gaze steadily without flinching.

 

“Sam, I swear to God-”

 

“No, Dean,” his younger brother interrupts firmly, “Not now. Not after all the time I’ve watched you two idiots dance around each other.”

 

“You don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about, Sam!” Dean bangs his hands down on the table and Sam moves his laptop further away from his irate brother to protect it.

 

“Don’t I?” he raises an eyebrow at the elder hunter, who scowls at him. Sam’s gaze softens as he opens up his laptop again, staring at the picture that blinks on to the screen.

 

“Dean,” he says quietly. “I’ve known that you’re in love with him for ages now. And it doesn’t bother me.”

 

He looks straight at his brother as he says it, pulling out the puppy eyes and softest expression he can muster. And _damn_ if Dean doesn’t fall for it – like always.

 

“Sam, I don’t-” Dean fumbles. Words, fuck, _feelings_ – they’re not his forte.

 

“Don’t lie, Dean,” Sam cuts in, “Not to me. And stop lying to yourself. I’ve known for a long time… and Charlie knew too.”

 

He pulls up the picture of the map that Dean and Charlie drew together, along with the letter that she wrote down. And damn it, Dean knows – he’s always known – that Charlie wanted the two of them together. Sam plays dirty, bringing the dead redhead into this. 

 

For a long moment, silence reigns as the two Winchesters glare at one another. It’s _Dean_ who deflates, burying his face in his arms with a soft moan.

 

“It’s not gonna go anywhere, Sam,” his voice is mumbled. “So just forget it.”

 

Sam blinks.

 

“Dean, you can't just-” he tries but Dean looks up with furious eyes that are almost glassy and he subsides in the face of his brother’s ire.

 

“ _Leave_ it, Sam,” Dean orders forcefully. Before the younger hunter can protest, Cas walks in, yawning as he makes their way to his table. Dean yelps at the sight and quickly slams the laptop lid down again, ignoring Cas’s concerned look. He’s dressed in a pair of slacks and a button down shirt, hair askew and unkempt. It’s the most adorable thing Dean’s seen, not that he’ll admit it.

 

(Fuck, he is really turning into a teenage girl. He’s going to be watching Twilight and sighing over that fucking vampire next.)

 

“Is everything alright?” the angel enquires and Dean nods emphatically.

 

“Peachy, Cas,” he insists. “How about some coffee, huh?”

 

He pushes a mug of coffee over to the angel who shrugs and accepts it, sipping slowly as he turns his gaze from one brother to the other. Sam sighs, letting it go for now, and Dean heaves a quiet sigh of relief.

 

Suddenly, Cas jumps up, stance going rigid and head cocking from one side to the other.

 

“Cas-?!” Sam exclaims, exchanging wary glances with Dean. They both recognize the sign of the angel at work – something supernatural is nearby. Dean doesn’t know whether to be excited or not; the past few months across Europe has left them with little chances to hunt and while a part of him is restless and eager to get back, another part of him has been unapologetically happy in a way a hunter could never be.

 

“Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean asks sharply. Cas just shakes his head, tilting his head in that way that is so uniquely him, before he flops back down with a loud exhale. His eyes are still alert, form stiff and wary as he scans the entire bistro, which isn’t exactly sparsely populated despite the early time of the morning.

 

“Cas!” Sam calls and the angel’s attention finally snaps back to the two brothers watching him anxiously.

 

“What’s goin’ on, man?” the younger Winchester asks anxiously and Cas shrugs, expression arranged into a confused frown.

 

“I just…” he looks around, clearly still worried, “I thought I felt the presence of a Druid.”

 

“Druid?” Dean questions and Cas nods in assent.

 

“They’re priests from the Irish pagan culture,” he tells them and Sam lights up in excitement. “They have the ability to make use of magic, which they often strengthen with ritualistic sacrifices to the pagan gods.”

 

“You sensed one here?” Sam is like a goddamned kid in a candy store; Dean rolls his eyes and intervenes before the nerds can get into it.

 

“Do we need to gank it, Cas?” he asks. Cas shakes his head.

 

“I only thought I felt their presence, Dean,” he answers. “More an echo than an actual presence, to be honest. And it did not seem malevolent.”

 

“You can't exactly pick up on their intentions from a trace echo of a presence, dude,” Dean snorts. “Im'ma hit the streets, see if there’s been any weird shit happenin’.”

 

“Dean, I don’t think-” Sam begins but Dean ignores him, getting up and walking away from the table as he cracks his knuckles.

 

Thank _fuck_. A hunt. Exactly what he needed right now.

 

The adrenaline of chasing down a monster and ganking it – he needs that high, needs to know that he’s still Dean fucking Winchester, hunter extraordinaire who doesn’t sit around when things happen… even if he _is_ in love with a goddamned angel.

 

But the hunt doesn’t go as planned.

 

In fact, there isn’t even a hunt at all.

 

Nothing strange – no deaths, no disappearances and fuck, no shit that pings his hunters’ senses.

 

An entire day of draggin’ his ass around London and Dean has to finally admit it – Cas was either mistaken or right. If the presence was a real Druid, he or she isn’t doing any harm. At least not anything that he can see.

 

It fucking sucks.

 

(Well, not the people getting hurt part… the part where he can't gank a motherfucking monster, and _god_ , is he really explaining his own motives to himself? It’s official… admitting that he’s in love is making him a goddamned pansy ass.)

 

Sam’s triumphant expression earns him the eye roll of the century as Dean trudges into their hotel room that evening.

 

“Not a word, Sam,” he wags a finger in his brother’s direction as he flops face-first into bed, sighing heavily. “Not a goddamned word.”

 

And the Druid is forgotten for the reminder of their stay in London. They tour the rest of UK, passing by the English countryside with Sam and Cas geeking out over literary references that just fly past Dean’s head. More than six weeks pass and they forget all about the damn Druid in favor of acting like stereotypical tourists who pause at every historical spot to take pictures of themselves. It’s normal and it’s weird, but Dean can’t pretend that he doesn’t love it.

 

But Belfast is another story – because there _was_ a Druid and apparently, he or she is a sadistic motherfucker who overheard them in the bistro, who has also followed them all the way to Belfast.

 

They’re in a _church_ of all places, getting a guided tour of the tiny little monument that served as a safe haven for the civilians during the Catholic-Protestant conflicts from a couple decades ago. Sam is too busy nerding out over the history of the place, going starry eyed and floppy haired when the tour guide – a young, Irish lad in his twenties – begins to talk about the local protests that were happening at that time.

 

Cas, in the meantime, hasn’t said a word. Dean turns to the angel with a frown, titling his head in question when he sees the familiar blue eyes are glassy with quiet sorrow.

 

“Cas?” he asks, “What’s up? You look like you saw a ghost.”

 

He looks taken aback momentarily, “No, Dean, there’s no ghost here. At least, I don’t sense any-”

 

“Expression, dude,” Dean rolls his eyes, cutting him off intermittently. Almost eight years and still, his angel hasn’t picked up social cues and a part of Dean hopes that he never will.

 

It’s what makes Cas so… _Cas_.

 

“But what’s wrong?” he narrows his eyes at him, who sighs and casts his gaze about the small church. It’s a nondescript little building, but there’s a nostalgic, bittersweet warmth to be found within its white walls and glass-stained windows.

 

“This…” he gestures to the aisle and the wooden rows that are sitting empty right now. “This place is beautiful, Dean… and yet… human beings interpret my Father’s words in such erroneous ways.”

 

He looks sad, broken and for a moment, Dean is reminded of _Castiel_ , the Angel of the Lord, who was so dejected from a dead beat dad who up and vanished on his kids when they needed him the most.

 

And shit, he gets it. Religion has never been his thing anyway, but Cas has pointed out more than enough times the inconsistencies within the Church and the Bible. The angel may have given up on the search for his dumbass Dad, but to see the way humans destroy in His name is something he still gets twisted up about.

 

That quiet faith, despite everything, despite all the fucked up shit they’ve been through… that silent faith is what gets Cas through on some days, Dean knows. He envies it.

 

He’s also a little bit in love with it, not that he’ll ever say it out loud.

 

Because he feels the same about John Winchester... dad was a shitty ass father, no doubt about it, but deep down, Dean knows – _knows_ – that Dad’s love for them was no joke. The man fucking died for them and even if he sucked at being _Daddy_ after Mom’s death, Dean still carries faith in John’s love for his boys.

 

He understands Cas’s ambivalence.

 

But he’s Dean goddamned Winchester – he doesn’t know how to tell him.

 

So he just grabs the angel’s shoulder and squeezes it, offering him what comfort he can. Cas looks up at him and smiles timidly.

 

“I-uh…” Dean clears his throat. “One thing you learn in this business, Cas… monsters? They’re easy. Humans…”

 

He shakes his head and Cas’s smile turns sad and faraway as he nods in agreement.

 

“Indeed,” he mutters and his own hand rises up to grab Dean’s over his shoulder.

 

And suddenly, just like that, Dean is hyper aware of every part of the angel – the proximity between their bodies, the soft hairs on Cas’s arm that brush against his own and the goosepimpling flesh that Dean wants to bend down and worship with his mouth.

 

Cas is looking at him again – those blue, _blue_ eyes staring into his face like Dean’s the biggest puzzle he has ever seen. The look is so reminiscent of the days when Cas was Castiel, trying to figure out the nuances of Dean Winchester – the man he had put together but not really understood.

 

For some reason, Dean refuses to look away.

 

His heart is racing in his chest and he can't hear anything but the blood pounding within his head but he doesn’t pull back like the chickenshit he usually is.

 

He doesn’t know why, but at this moment, he really doesn’t give a damn.

 

His breath shortens and the tip of his tongue escapes the corner of his mouth to lightly lick at his lower lip in anticipation. Cas’s gaze is drawn to the small movement, the blue of his gorgeous eyes darkening to a sultry navy before they come back up to meet Dean’s challenging gaze. The air is charged with the tension that’s been thick between them since Naples and suddenly, every single fiber of Dean just wants to give in, to let go and to just fuck.

 

He cannot think of a single reason why he shouldn’t.

 

He _wants_ Cas – male or female, hot or cold, angel or fallen… he _wants_ him, he’s wanted him for a long, long time.

 

And fuck if he isn’t tired of wanting but never taking.

 

So he leans in, breath fanning across Cas’s lips, giving him plenty of time to pull back. He doesn’t.

 

The first peck is almost chaste, similar to the soft kiss they shared in Naples, Dean’s lips just brushing over Cas’s, lingering to taste the chapstick that Sam forced on the angel once he moved into the Bunker.

 

The hunter pulls back, resting his forehead on Cas’s, whose eyes have gone wide – fuck, Dean can barely see the blue, his pupils are so dilated.

 

A mere peck did that.

 

_He_ did that.

 

Cas wants _him_.

 

He is just about lean in and really kiss the angel when he freezes, arms coming up to push at Dean’s. Startled, he stumbles back, grabbing the lapels of that goddamned trench coat to steady himself.

 

“Dude, what the-?!” he yelps.

 

But Cas isn’t paying attention – his gaze is far away, a look of pinched irritation on his face. His head is tilted in the classic Castiel style that speaks of power and unimaginable strength and suddenly, an image of that strength pressing Dean down on to the bed face first and fucking him hard and fast flashes behind Dean’s eyes. He moans like a cheap two-bit whore, grinding his hips against the angel, who looks at him with wide, comic eyes.

 

“De-Dean,” he stammers, trying to hold the hunter away. Despite his outward reticence, Dean can feel his body respond to his ministrations – that is the unmistakable feel of Cas’s erection jutting against his own.

 

“Fuck Cas,” he breathes hotly against the shorter man’s ear, appreciating the full body shudder that runs through him. He doesn’t care that they’re in public, in a friggin’ _church_ of all places – he simply grabs two handfuls of that perfect ass and drags Cas against himself, burying his face in the angel’s neck and breathing him in deep.

 

“Dean, you’re not- this isn’t-” Cas stumbles, holding on to him tight and Dean bends down, the tip of his tongue darting out to trace the shell of Cas’s ear. His breath is coming out in little pants right now and he can feel Cas’s heart race against his own.

 

“Dean, this church is – what the hell, man?!” Sam squawks as he comes to a stop in front of them. Dean ignores his girly shriek in favor of nipping at Cas’s neck; _god_ , the angel tastes sinful and every part of him wants to strip him bare and fuck him until they’re both utterly spent and sated.

 

“Go away Sammy,” he mutters, frowning when Cas pushes back weakly, shifting his head so that Dean’s kiss lands on his cheek instead of his mouth.

 

“Cas,” he groans, “Cas, I just, I want - _please_ , Cas, I-”

 

He’s burning up, from the inside out, arousal singing his veins. He wants Cas, _needs_ him and fuck, why hasn’t he fallen into bed with the angel already, _goddamned_ it?

 

“Sa-Sam,” Cas whimpers when Dean’s hand traces its way down the length of his hip and squeezes the bulge in his pants.

 

“Cas, what the hell is goin’ on here?!” Sam demands, “Why’s Dean pawing at you?”

 

“Dru-druid,” Cas chokes out, baring his neck for Dean to suck on. “Sam, we can’t… sex spell… we need to…”

 

Sam breathes in sharply and Dean’s head is spinning.

 

Distantly, he understands what Cas is saying… the Druid from London, whom they thought was not real is _here_ … whoever it is has cast a fucking sex spell on him and Cas, and fuck it, this is his life, but Dean really, _really_ doesn’t give a horse’s ass right now.

 

Because Cas is in his arms, _rutting_ against him like he needs him as much Dean does and fuck if it isn’t the most wonderful thing the hunter has ever experienced. He really, really wants them in a bed right about now, wants to feel Cas’s hot, naked skin against his own, wants to strip them both bare and lay them raw to each other.

 

“Cas, go,” Sam shakes his head, “Just go back to the room.”

 

“Sa-Sam, I can't,” Cas whispers, shaking in Dean’s arms and Dean growls.

 

“Listen to Sam, Cas,” he snarls into Cas’s neck, “We need to go, right now. Or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

 

If Cas wasn’t responding right now, if he didn’t have his own goddamned, delectable erection pressing against Dean’s in the most wonderful manner possible… then maybe, _maybe_ Dean would back off.

 

But Cas wants him too. Dean knows – _knows_ – that he does; he doesn’t know how he knows it with such certainty when just a few days back he was ripping Sam a new one for even suggesting that the angel feels the same way, but right now, he doesn’t fucking _care_.

 

“Cas, just get back to the hotel,” Sam orders them, his voice serious. “I’ll track this Druid down and take care of it.”

 

“Sam, De-Dean,” Cas gasps; they’re starting to get strange and dirty looks now, from the few other tourists that are in the church along with them. Sam shakes his head and just pushes at him.

 

“Go, Cas,” he says firmly, “Take care of my brother. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

 

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean whispers into his angel’s ear, “I know you want me.”

 

He rolls his hips into Cas’s harshly and ignores Sam’s groan as the angel looks at him with predatory eyes.

 

“Dean,” he growls and the next thing the hunter knows, they’re back in the hotel room that Dean shares with Sam, Cas panting against his neck and pressing into him.

 

“Dean,” he repeats, sounding wrecked. “Dean you… it’s a spell, Dean… you don’t really…”

 

“Don’t you fucking tell me I don’t want you, _Castiel_ ,” Dean barks into the angel’s coat and yanks him close, grabbing his hand and pressing it to his balls to get some much needed friction. He nearly cries at how good Cas feels against him as he licks at his neck, biting the skin lightly.

 

“Does this _feel_ like I don’t want you?” he moans, “God, I want you… I’ve wanted you for such a _long_ time, Cas, I-I just…”

 

With inhuman difficulty, he steps back and peers at Cas, insecurity suddenly raising its ugly head in his chest. Cas is an angel, why would he want _Dean_ -

 

“Un-unless you… you don’t…” he mutters, wanting nothing more than for the raging boner to go away, to let him _think_ for just a moment, to -

 

Cas pushes him back against the bed and looms over him, expression predatory and wanting. He’s fucking growling, rolling his hips against Dean’s, pressing their cocks together. Dean moans, warmth pooling in his gut as Cas noses against his neck with a low growl.

 

“I’ve never wanted anything or anyone more than you, Dean Winchester,” he whispers, and _fuck_ , Dean’s heart is bursting and if this were a Disney film, there’d be rainbows and cutesy animals bursting into loud songs just about now.

 

“Then fuck me,” he challenges Cas, whose eyes are blown wide with lust, the pupils so dilated, that gorgeous blue is barely a thin ring at the edge.

 

Rowling, Cas bends down and captures his Dean’s lips with his own, and damn but this is a kiss. This can't be _his_ Cas, all innocence and running away from sex – he kisses like he means business, licking at the seam of the hunter’s lips until he opens up, thrusting his tongue into his mouth and biting down on the bottom lip.

 

Dean groans low in his throat, running his hands down the length of Cas’s back, enjoying the feel of his muscles bunching beneath his touch before he grabs the tight globes of that sinful ass and presses him further against his own body, wishing like hell they were naked already.

 

Clothes, why the _fuck_ are they still wearing clothes?

 

“Pa-pants,” he grunts, struggling to escape Cas’s grasp, “Cas, _off_.”

 

The angel flicks his hand in a quick motion and Dean’s suddenly moaning as his hot skin slides against Cas’s. Angel mojo is _awesome_ ; he grins widely as he drags Cas down for another kiss, licking into his mouth as Cas’s hands wander down the length of Dean’s body, pausing to pinch at one of his nipples.

 

Dean damn near keens when Cas’s hands are replaced by his mouth; the angel sucks on his skin, first mouthing at the nipple and then tracing around it with his tongue before biting down on it lightly. Fuck, he’s going to have teeth marks and hickeys there and how the hell did he not know how _sensitive_ his nipples were?

 

His back arches off the bed as Cas mouths his way down his body, licking hot stripes across the lightly tanned skin, sucking bruises into his side and watching with predatory satisfaction as the blood rushes to the surface. Suddenly, he is right _there_ , mouthing at Dean’s hard cock, administering small, kittenish licks to the head that tease but do nothing to satisfy.

 

Dean’s leaking pre-come and he looks down to meet Cas’s eyes, moaning when the angel doesn’t look away, taking him down into his mouth. He can't take the whole of Dean and what part of Dean’s cock he can't take inside, he rubs at with his hands. A distant part of his mind reminds him that Cas is still relatively new to sex, despite all the time he’s spent on earth, but this is still the hottest fucking blowjob of Dean’s life.

 

Because Cas doesn’t look away, peering at Dean through half-lidded cerulean eyes that see everything, that is stripping him raw even as Cas’s mouth works at the head of his cock and he sucks him down. He moans around Dean and the soft vibrations add more to the feeling as Dean thrusts into his mouth – even when Cas’s eyes water, he doesn’t look away, and fuck if this isn’t the best sex he’s ever had.

 

He wants to reciprocate.

 

So when he is just about to come, he struggles to push Cas off of himself, kicking lightly until the angel pulls back with a frown.

 

“Dean-” he begins, but Dean doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want words right now. So he just yanks Cas down and then rolls them over so that he’s on top now and then bends down to kiss the angel, hands rubbing at Cas’s cock, which is rock hard and stiff against his belly, the head purpling as it drips with pre-come. The groan that rips out of Cas’s throat is the most erotic thing he has ever heard and he wants to hear it again and again, so he strokes him, jerking him hard and fast.

 

“De-Dean,” he gasps, “Dean, I’m-”

 

Dean rolls his hips lightly so that their erections slide into one another, slotting neatly into place. Sweat beads their skin and he licks a drop of it off Cas’s chest, loving the taste of him – why the _hell_ did he wait this goddamned long to do this?!

 

He takes both of them in hand, stroking them hard and fast, burying his face in Cas’s neck, biting down hard on the skin, leaving his own hickey on the angel. God, he wants to mark him up, show the world that Cas is his – his, _Dean’s_ and Dean is _his_ and fuck, this feels so, _so_ good -

 

“Dean,” Cas’s voice dips even lower, even rougher during sex and it shoots straights to Dean’s dick.

 

“Dean, lo-look at me,” he pants and with a groan, Dean looks up to meet Cas’s eyes, blue clashing with green.

 

And then he’s coming, hot and warm between them in the channel created by his fist. Cas clutches at his face, kissing him, licking into his mouth and Dean strokes him once, twice, thrice before he’s spilling his seed on the hunter’s belly, striping his chest with white come.

 

Dean falls over him, exhausted, mind a blank slate of _fuck, fuck, fuck_ and pleasure. A soft buzz in singing in his ears and he buries his face into Cas’s chest, ignoring the jizz pooled on their skin, mixing with the sweat that’s cooling off, breathing heavily.

 

He can hear Cas’s heartbeat beneath his ear; the loud, thundering cadence of it is soothing and he purrs as the angel runs his hand through his sandy hair, yanking on the roots just this side of rough. His eyes flutter closed and before he knows it, he’s fast asleep, cuddled against Cas.

 

The waking is the worst of his life.

 

Because Cas is gone and the fog clears and the truth of what he’s done hits him like a friggin’ bullet.

 

He all but raped Cas in a state of _fuck, fuck, fuck._

 

Sam’s sitting across him, a grim look on his face, and Dean’s heart sinks as he stares at his brother’s sympathetic face.

 

“Sa-Sam?” Dean whispers, throat hoarse. “Wh-where’s Cas?”

 

His younger brother looks at him sadly, shaking his head.

 

“He’s gone, Dean,” he murmurs, looking away.

 

Gone.

 

Cas is _gone._

 

Fuck.


	8. Chapter 7

The first time Dean tells Cas that he is in love with him he fucking _yells_ it at the angel from the top of the goddamned Eiffel Tower. Dean Winchester is turning into a friggin’ cliché of the worst kind.

 

It’s been exactly six days since that god-awful night in Belfast. Cas vanished – he fucking _vanished_ – after what turned to be the best sex Dean’s ever had and even though Sam’s been praying nonstop for their friend to return since that night, the angel has given no hint of his presence at all.

 

No, fuck, Dean _won’t_ admit that his heart is breaking or that he gives a shit.

 

Because, _clearly_ , Cas doesn’t. The little dipshit doesn’t even bother to answer his calls and Dean’s too proud, too hurt to pray for him or leave a voicemail.

 

Deep down, he knows it’s his fault – he all but forced himself on Cas, didn’t he? The memories of that night are foggy, like he was in a haze the whole time. All he really remembers is the need to just _fuck_ , to rut against Cas, mark him and claim him as his own.

 

And his eyes… Christ, Cas’s blue, _blue_ eyes, boring into Dean, devouring him with his very gaze… as though Dean were the only thing in his entire world and he was something _precious_.

 

It’s that last bit, that last thought that makes him wonder if Cas _did_ want him after all. A part of Dean feels broken and utterly bitter – he thought he was good enough for at least the angel who fucking left Heaven for him.

 

Turns out, he isn’t… ‘cause Cas vanished, without even sticking around to say _thanks for last night, but that ain’t happenin’ again, adios._ He did the friggin’ walk of shame, treating Dean like a one night stand and he doesn’t know whether he’s angry, hurt or happy about it.

 

Because it was just _sex_ , from a fucking sex spell, cast on them by an asshole Druid who thought it was fun to mess around with their lives. Sam found her and got her to remove the spell the same day, having gotten her to admit that no, she didn’t follow them to Belfast.  It was a chance meeting and given that she’d overheard their conversation in the bistro and seen the picture from Naples, she wanted to _help_ out.

 

It’s sickening to think about, so Dean just avoids the topic like a plague.

 

Because one night of pleasure shouldn’t mean so much to him.

 

(It does… _goddammit_ , it _does_.)

 

Sam cornered him that very morning, turning sad, puppy eyes to him and shaking his head ruefully.

 

“Dean…” he had sighed and the elder Winchester had simply grunted and turned over, closing his eyes harshly against the tears that threatened to spill out. His eyes were burning, his throat closing in on him and each breath felt like a fucking bullet to his gut.

 

Because Cas was _gone_.

 

Dean doesn’t think he’s going to come back, even when they pack up and leave for Paris, the elder Winchester ignoring his younger brother’s plea to set things right.

 

He does what he always does best; he heads out to the bar and gets ass whopping drunk, flirting with a sexy model with long legs and a big rack. It is the biggest goddamned Paris cliché he can think of; she’s a starving artist in wait for the Paris fashion week to come around so that she can make her big splash into the modeling world.

 

Dean doesn’t even know her name.

 

But he doesn’t give a flying fuck; the hard buzzing in his mind tells him that he’s not going to remember this in the morning anyway. He just needs to get this out, get _Cas_ outta his system – fuck it out and then he’ll be back to normal again, back to being Dean Winchester, macho and hunter extraordinaire who doesn’t _do_ relationships.

 

(He’s a fucking liar and a little chickenshit and he knows it.)

 

He has her pinned against the wall in the alleyway behind the bar, skirt bunched up and hands fumbling to rip her panties off. She’s moaning in his ear, whispering what he assumes are filthy nothings; he doesn’t care because he’s not listening to her. She bites down on his neck and raises her head to smirk at him as she slides down the length of his body and ends up on her knees in front of him, peering at him demurely through long lashes, a sexy siren in the making.

 

Dean freezes.

 

Her eyes are blue.

 

_Fuck._

 

He reels back from the force of her touch as she mouths at the head of his erection through his pants, heavy lidded blue, _blue_ eyes gazing up at him almost mockingly.

 

And the flash of Cas sucking his cock, peering into Dean’s eyes as though he was the most goddamned important thing in his world, strikes the hunter _hard_.

 

He pushes her back, ignoring her yelp of distress, stumbling back into the wall behind him, breathing heavily, eyes burning, because fuck, Cas-Cas- _Cas_ -

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

 

Dean has to be dreaming.

 

He _has_ to be, because there is no fucking way Cas is here. And there is definitely no way in hell that his angel said the word ‘ _fuck’_.

 

Cas doesn’t do that shit.

 

Blearily, he looks up to see that Cas is standing in front of him, expression furious and smitey and hell if this isn’t a hallucination or his drunken imagination, but his cock twitches in his pants and he smiles dopily at the trench-coated dude in front of him.

 

“Cas!” he slurs happily. “You said fuck… wait, can angels swear?” he wrinkles his nose in question. “Isn’t that like… against your moral code or whatever?”

 

Cas is _hot_ , glowering at him like this, all tall and muscled and blue eyes narrowing at Dean in righteous irritation. He’d like nothing more than to bite down on those pink lips puckered in fury and taste that gorgeous mouth that is sneering at him like he’s committed a crime.

 

The angel steps around the girl – whose name Dean still can't remember – and grabs his arm, growling like a fucking animal. Dean struggles, because really dude, what the actual _hell_ -?

 

“Cas, le-lemme go!” he staggers back, “Yo-you can't just-”

 

The girl jumps up as Cas pulls him back in an attempt to get him out of the alleyway and Dean’s head is spinning enough that he just goes, ignoring the mish-mash of feelings rearing their ugly heads inside his belly. Cas is here, he’s _here_ , but he fucking _left_ and then came _back_ and Dean doesn’t know what he’s feeling except that he wants it to just stop- _stop_ -

 

“Move,” Cas is snarling at the girl who is scowling at them and gibbering something angrily in French. Dean just stares blearily at the scene, head throbbing, the arousal having faded away, leaving him bone tired.

 

“Ca-Cas,” he stumbles and the angel catches him, hissing back to the girl in French. She just huffs, spitting out what Dean assumes is a swear word before she turns around on high-heeled shoe and then walking away, hips swaying seductively even now.

 

Dean sighs, mustering up a tired glare.

 

“Wh-what do you _want_?” he snaps wearily. “You can't just-”

 

Cas growls and then slams him into the wall he was just leaning back on and Dean yells in shock, vision swimming as tears blur his eyes from the sudden pain.

 

“What. Were. You. _Doing_?!” Cas asks through gritted teeth, spitting out each word and Dean snarls back just as angrily, the alcohol in his system adding to the confusing mix of lust and want and rage. Goddamned, Cas is _hot_ like this, all smitey and furious, but Dean’s pissed and hurt and lost and he doesn’t know whether he wants to fuck the angel or run far, far away.

 

“I was _going_ to get laid,” he hisses, “But thanks, asshole, you- oomph-”

 

Cas’s lips slam into his own, the angel’s body hard and unforgiving as he yanks at Dean’s hair and pulls him close, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. Dean groans, struggling against his grip as he bites back, clawing at Cas’s stupid trench coat, grinding his hips against him, arousal flooding back, now heightened with the adrenaline that’s pounding through his system.

 

“Fu-fuck, _Cas_ ,” he grunts, baring his neck as Cas nips at the neck there, his erection sliding against Dean’s, lighting up his nerve endings with warmth and electric fire. Moaning softly, he pulls the angel up to kiss him again, licking into his mouth roughly, rutting against him like a teenager, hands sliding down to palm at his cock through the slacks he’s wearing beneath his trench coat.

 

“De-Dean,” Cas sounds wrecked and suddenly, Dean’s done. He doesn’t fucking care anymore – Cas is _here_ , rutting against him and he wants him and whatever this is, he’ll take it.

 

So he dips his hand into Cas’s pants, thumbing him through his boxers before plunging in to stroke his cock, hard and fast, jerking him off harshly. He isn’t tender – he’s angry and pissed and hurting – and his movements are a reflection of that.

 

He doesn’t want sweet, because all this is is a pity fuck anyway. Cas will leave again, he’ll be fucking _gone_ in the morning, because that’s what he does, that’s what _everyone_ does – they all leave, sooner or later.

 

The loud keen that rips through the angel’s lips as he comes in Dean’s hand takes the hunter by shock; Cas’s cock spasms, his entire body going taut against Dean and he is breathing harshly, the blue of his eyes only a thin ring around his pupils.

 

A couple of assholes from the bar, drunk and giggling stagger out, catcalling at them and hooting loudly, but Dean ignores them in favor of looking at his angel, who is watching him carefully, a hint of _something_ in his eyes.

 

“Dean,” he murmurs, his thumb coming up to stroke Dean’s cheek softly.

 

And it’s that softness that breaks him.

 

Dean pulls his hand away as if he’s burned, ignoring his own arousal, begging for relief against his pants, stumbling back and turning away. He can't move much – he’s still backed up against the alleyway wall with Cas a hard line in front of him, but he refuses to meet the angel’s eyes, wiping his hands clean of Cas’s come on his jeans.

 

“What do you want, Cas?” he whispers, shaking. He turns away, refusing to let him see how _broken_ Dean is – his eyes are blurry and those are _not_ tears, fuck no, but his chest and his throat are too tight, and the world is too big and too small and he doesn’t, he just doesn’t _know_ -

 

“Dean, let me,” his arms come to wrap around the taller man from behind, hand falling to his waist as he gently rubs at Dean’s cock through the rough scratch of his pants.

 

 _God_ , he wants this, wants to just lean into it and let Cas hold him up as he chases after his own pleasure… but Dean’s an asshole and he can't do this, not after Cas ran, so he grabs at those long fingers and pushes him away.

 

“Don’t,” he snarls, “Don’t you dare. You have no right.”

 

Cas’s eyes darken and he crowds Dean’s space, “No right?!” he roars, “I have no right?! And some…that wench… from that bar did?!”

 

Against himself, Dean feels the urge to laugh bubble in his throat. _Who even uses words like wench anymore?_

 

“No Cas, you _don’t_ ,” he snaps, “And I’m too drunk for this shit.”

 

He turns around to walk away when the hard grip on his forearm stops him and he’s whirled around, Cas growling into his face like a friggin’ animal.

 

“We are not done,” he tells him furiously and the next thing Dean knows, they’re on the top of the fucking Eiffel Tower, in front of the champagne bar which has already closed down for the night.

 

Dean stumbles back, the sudden difference in surrounding, the perception of height and the alcohol buzzing in his veins sending into a tailspin. Cas catches him, pressing two fingers to his forehead and the hangover-that-isn’t vanishes, leaving him clear headed and definitely _not_ drunk.

 

Fuck Cas.

 

 _Fuck_ him.

 

Dean’s beyond pissed right now and he growls at the angel, pushing him off harshly, glaring at him even as his breath turns into soft, adrenaline fueled bursts of rage.

 

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” he yells loudly. Fortunately, there aren’t many people around – it is after midnight and Dean doesn’t know if this is the norm or the exception to the rule, but there are only a few stragglers milling around and they’re too spread out around the tower to pay any attention to the two men fighting.

 

“Dean-” Cas begins, scowling, expression pinched and worried and Dean throws his hands up, refusing the touch that angel offers.

 

“No,” he growls, “Fucking _no_.”

 

“Dean, please, I-”

 

For all that he was the one who was righteously angry enough to drag them here, to protest Dean’s flippant exit, he seems almost hesitant now, a reticence written into the way he holds himself, as though he doesn’t know what to do with Dean or with himself.

 

It pisses him off even more.

 

“Cas, _no_ ,” he cuts off whatever he was going to say, because goddamned it, Dean’s tired and he doesn’t want to listen anymore. “You _don’t_ get to do this,” he snaps, “You don’t get to give me the best fuck of my life and then disappear on me the next day and come back almost a week later to act like a jealous asshole… you got no right.”

 

“Dean, that night,” Cas looks miserable, eyes drawn into wide, pleading saucers that Dean refuses to give into. Not this time, dammit.

 

“You were under a spell, Dean,” Cas whispers, sounding raw and broken. “A spell that-”

 

“You _left_ , Cas,” he accuses harshly, because yeah, that was a spell, but it wasn’t the _spell_ that made Dean want to fuck into Cas or have him offer himself up on a platter to the angel like that.

 

And Dean’s a _hunter_ – no spell is gonna make him do anything _he_ doesn’t want to.

 

Cas knows it well.

 

Which is why it fucking hurt when the angel just… _ran_ _away_ instead of confronting Dean. He left, like everyone does – like Cassie and Lisa, like Mom and Dad and even Sam. He wasn’t enough for the angel – who gave up _Heaven_ and _everything_ – to stay.

 

He’s never been enough.

 

“It was a spell, Dean,” Cas snaps, “A spell! And _clearly_ , that night didn’t mean all that much, since you were just about to fuck some random girl behind a bar!”

 

Fuck.

 

He just…

 

Dean doesn’t even think about the punch he throws at him; his hand moves of its own accord, connecting with the angel’s face.

 

It’s just as ineffective as that time locked in the Green Room in Van Nuys in the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t.

 

And it still feels just as good, because Cas is staring at him with wide eyes, confusion and exhaustion written into his features.

 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Dean mutters low, every word dripping with venom. The world feels too small, his heart thudding against his chest. “Don’t you dare tell me what _I_ feel, _Castiel_. Don’t you fucking dare.”

 

“And _what_ do you feel, Dean?!” Cas snarls, backing him into the wall, grabbing at his shirt. “You _fuck_ people, you don’t exactly-”

 

“I love fucking _you_ , you asshole!” he yells and Cas freezes. “Because I love _you_!”

 

That’s it.

 

Dean’s done.

 

He’s _done_.

 

He pushes Cas back and stumbles away, gut lurching as he tastes the bitter bile that rises fast within his throat. He’s nauseous from angel express and his mind his telling him that his body _should_ be buzzed, but he _isn’t_ and his chest is too tight and he’s just told _Cas_ that he _loves_ him and he _does_ and _god_ , why does everything _hurt_ and -

 

A warm hand pulls on his arm and he just falls into Cas who pulls him close and frames his face with his hands.

 

“Ca-Cas,” he pleads. He can't take this, not right now, not when he’s reeling and his heart feels like it’s being ripped into two.

 

The electric blue of those gorgeous eyes softens to the dull color of a cloudy, rainy afternoon and Cas just sighs, resting his forehead against the hunter’s before he nuzzles his nose into Dean’s cheek.

 

Damn angel is like a friggin’ cat.

 

Dean blinks, breathing out loudly, pulse racing as he instinctively pulls him closer, arms wrapping around his back and hands buried in the familiar trench coat.

 

“You, Dean Winchester, are an idiot,” Cas murmurs, his thumb brushing soft circles on Dean’s cheek. The hunter struggles against his grip, trying to push him off, but Cas holds him tight, boxing him in and then slowly moves closer, his breath fanning hot against Dean’s face.

 

He gives him plenty of time to move away, but Dean can't – he can't look away from the warmth of Cas’s gaze, can't pull back when the angel is holding him so tight, like…like he _means_ something to him…

 

Like he means _everything_ to him.

 

The kiss is soft, chaste, exactly like the one they shared in Naples, only this time, any audience they have doesn’t care about them, milling around the Tower on their own business, doing touristy things or whatever. Besides, a distant part of Dean’s mind provides, people kissing at the top of the Eiffel Tower is such a goddamned cliché that they’re probably used to it.

 

And then Cas licks at the seam of Dean’s lips and all coherent thought vanishes as a hot, wet tongue probes into his mouth curiously, as though Cas wants to learn him from the inside out, wants to bury himself in Dean and get lost there, never to return.

 

It makes his heart ache.

 

Dean’s eyes remain closed when the angel pulls back, resting his forehead against his, palms cupping the back of his neck.

 

“Dean,” he murmurs the name like it’s a prayer.

 

“You _left_ , Cas.”

 

Dean lets the accusation float between them, voice tired and broken. There’s no response, but he feels the hands holding him up tighten their grip around him and he sighs, eyes fluttering open to meet Cas’s. The blue bores into him and Cas steps back, letting go of him to turn around and face the sky, looking ancient and mystical and angelic – something that Dean can never have.

 

“I came _back_ , Dean,” Cas counters, his voice just as quiet. “I’ve _always_ come back to you… I just…”

 

He trails off helplessly, offering Dean an exhausted shrug. Heart racing, hands trembling, Dean steps forward, grabbing Cas’s hands and twining their fingers together. There’s a slight hope budding within his chest and his throat is clogging up but he needs to _know_.

 

“Why’d you go?” he whispers, sounding raw.

 

Cas doesn’t look away this time, meeting Dean’s eyes without flinching.

 

“Because I was afraid you’d regret it,” he says simply. “And I didn’t think I could stand that.”

 

_Fuck._

 

Dean exhales, closing his eyes and yanking him forward, crushing Cas’s face to his chest and holding him tight. Fuck, he’s shaking and shivering like a thirteen year old girl, but _Cas_ …

 

Cas _wants_ him.

 

It sets his heart alight – it terrifies him.

 

“ _You’re_ the idiot,” he mutters into the angel’s ear, drawing his face up to his. “Why’d you come back?”

 

Cas hesitates but then replies. “Sam prayed to me,” he confesses, “Told me that I was being a moron and that I should speak to you.”

 

Dean chuckles a little at that; he can well imagine Sam doing that, trying to protect both his big brother as well as his best friend.

 

“He also said that you were an emotionally constipated asshole who doesn’t know how not to repress his feelings,” he supplies and Dean outright laughs, wrapping his arms around Cas and drawing him close. They fall silent, simply breathing into one another and enjoying being wrapped up in each other.

 

“Cas, I-” he swallows hard as the angel’s eyes meet his. Dammit, he’s already said it, why can't he fucking force the words out?

 

“I came back, Dean Winchester,” Cas murmurs, “Because I love you.”

 

He doesn’t give Dean the time to respond, instead drawing him into a soft, sweet kiss that leaves the hunter breathless and panting against him. Dean’s fingers curl into the lapels of the stupid trench coat as he licks into Cas’s mouth, the taste – of rain and chestnuts and something fresh – now becoming familiar and beloved.

 

“Don’t leave,” he whispers so quietly, he’s not sure Cas can even hear him. “Don’t leave, Cas.”

 

“Not without you, Dean,” Cas whispers against his lips and Dean’s heart finally stills, beating in tandem with the angel’s where he’s pressed up against the hunter.

 

Less than an hour later, they’re back at the hotel where Sam greets them with a too-wide smile on his face.

 

“Fucking finally,” he grins, wrapping one arm around each of them and pulling them into a three-way hug. Dean lets it happen for a moment before he pulls back and socks his brother in the arm.

 

“You're an interfering jackass, Sammy,” he tells his brother sternly, “But…thanks.”

 

Sam snorts, “For the love of God,” he mutters, “Go and _finally_ get a room.”

 

He pushes them up the stairs and into the room that’s been booked for Cas even though the angel didn’t come to Paris with them. Dean grabs the – _his_ – angel’s hand and drags him up, pushing him against the door the moment they’re along and licking into his mouth like he’s wanted to for too long now.

 

Cas pushes back, eyes darkening with lust and all the vamped up arousal that Dean’s been holding back since the bar returns full force as the angel throws him on the bed, straddling him even as he strips him, kissing him deeply.

 

Despite their urgency, when they fuck, it’s slow and sweet and gentle and Dean is probably never going to be able to say it out loud, but he knows that Cas is making love to him as he moves over him gently. And fuck, when the angel slowly slides his cock into the hunter, having prepped him softly, he wraps his arms around Cas and yanks him down to bury his face into his neck, running his hands through his sweat matted hair, locking his bow-legs around Cas’s hips.

 

Cas rocks into him slowly, building a burning rhythm that has Dean’s toes curling into the sheets, whimpers and broken moans falling unheeded from his lips. There’s no haste, no need to rush to the finish.

 

They have all the time in the world.

 

It feels like hours later that Dean comes untouched between them, spurting hot ropes of come across his own chest and on Cas’s belly. Cas growls low in his throat, thrusting once, twice before he goes taut, his release almost catching him by surprise.

 

Breathing heavily, he collapses on Dean, who ignores the sticky, sweaty mess between them in favor of holding his angel close, running his thumb up and down the knobs of that lean spine.

 

He’s exhausted, eyes struggling to stay open, but Dean doesn’t want to sleep yet, doesn’t want to close his eyes and open them only to find Cas gone.

 

“Sleep, Dean,” Cas mutters, looking up at him through lidded eyes, voice even rougher than usual and his hair sticking out at crazy angles.

 

“Cas…” he sighs and Cas rolls off him and on to his back, yanking him close so that they’ve now exchanged positions, with Dean lying half on top of him, his face tucked into the crook of Cas’s shoulder.

 

“I’ll be here in the morning.”

 

It’s a promise, a quiet oath and it settles the uneasiness within the hunter who looks up at him with a tremulous smile and whispers what’s been brewing in his heart for a long, long time now.

 

“I love you.”

 

It’s the first time the words slip out of his own volition, but Dean already knows – it won’t be the last.

 

Damn if that doesn’t feel good.

 


	9. Chapter 8

The first time Dean realizes that he’s unapologetically _happy_ , they’re in Spain, close to the end of their trip. Charlie Bradbury wanted a spectacular finish to her jaunt around the whole of Europe – she’s booked them tickets to the La Tomatina at Buñol and that’s where they are right now, checking into their hotel rooms.

 

Dean’s moved out of his room with Sam and ever since Paris, he and Cas take one double, with Sam taking the single room that’s part of their packages wherever they go. The past few months have been ones of discovery and experiment – letting go of Sam and moving in with Cas hasn’t been easy for Dean, whose every cell is hardwired to _take care of your brother, Dean!_

 

Cas understands – he doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything more and Dean’s heart hurts for the angel who quietly accepts that Sam will always be Dean’s first priority. He’s a stupid self-sacrificing son of a bitch, but Dean doesn’t know how to let go, how not to be Sammy’s elder brother.

 

It’s been Dean and Sam against the world for so long, he doesn’t know how else to exist.

 

Buñol is buzzing with warmth and excitement when they make their way into their rooms. The city is quite warm, given that it’s the end of August and Dean suddenly realizes – it’s been almost an entire year since he left the US and though they had a couple small hunts here and there, he’s been practically a civilian for the past ten months or so.

 

It’s a startling realization, particularly because Dean’s very _identity_ is centered around being a hunter; it’s defined him his whole life and now, he’s just spent a year, traveling and being a tourist and being _normal_.

 

Well, shit.

 

The point is further driven home when they are throwing fucking _tomatoes_ at one another in the middle of the street, fully immersed in the festivities, playing Tomatina the way it’s meant to be played. Sam’s yelling in delight, chasing after Cas with a huge, ripe, red tomato and the angel is dodging his throws, aiming tomatoes of his own to throw at the younger Winchester.

 

Dean’s playing a game of tomatoes.

 

_Fuck it,_ he thinks, lips curving into a wide grin of his own, picturing Charlie standing next to him in Moondor, her face one of imperious haughtiness as he orders her handmaiden about. This is so entirely reminiscent of that single moment, he feels a pang of something warm and sweet and still slightly painful.

 

“This one’s for you, Charlie,” he whispers and then with a raw, throaty yell, he throws himself at Sammy, grabbing him in a headlock and rubbing a squished tomato against the Sasquatch’s hair, which he’s begun to grow out again.

 

Damn kid will never change.

 

“De-Dean, let go!” Sam struggles. Dean laughs loudly, rubbing the squishy fruit all over his face, enjoying the way the juice runs down the side of his chin before Sam sticks out his leg and in a move that _Dean_ taught him years ago, brings the elder Winchester down swiftly.

 

“Aw, hell, Sammy,” he whines from the ground, turning to Cas with a small pout. “Cas, help!”

 

The angel rises an eyebrow at him, smirking, “You seem to be doing quite well on your own, Dean,” he teases, eyeing the hunter pointedly where he lays on the ground. Dean grunts, glaring at him and Cas laughs, pulling him up to his feet and turning to where Sam has already gotten back into the fray, pulled inside by other enthusiastic tourists and players.

 

They should have expected it, really, what with the huge crowds and the amount of bustling and hustling that happens during a festival like this. Even ticketed, La Tomatina is one of the biggest events in the country; accidents happen, and this year, apparently, it’s their turn.

 

Dean should’ve _known_ their good luck wasn’t going to hold out for long.

 

There are two rules for the Tomatina festival – squish the tomatoes properly and make way for the trucks when they come.

 

Apparently some assholes don’t understand that make way doesn’t mean trample over others, especially big moose-like men, to give space. Or that squish tomatoes means that you _squish_ the little red buggers, not throw them fully rounded against the ground where they can still cause damage.

 

Sam, caught in the very middle of the crowd, is pushed roughly to the side. On instinct, he throws up his arms to defend himself, but trips on a not-so-squished-tomato that’s lying nearby. With a loud yell, he goes down, groaning loudly, and Dean wouldn’t worry about so simple a fall, except that Sam hits his head on the sidewalk and then goes absolutely _still_.

 

“Sammy!” he yells, thrashing through the crowd to get to his brother, but the trucks are close by and he’s stuck on this side, watching helplessly as his brother lies on the ground, quiet and unmoving. Panic seizes his chest, blood pounding in anxiety and cursing the crowds, he pushes and fights his way through the throngs of people. He ignores the dirty looks and obvious curses thrown his way – Sammy, it’s _Sammy,_ and he has to make sure his brother’s okay.

 

But when he looks up, Cas is already there, pulling Sam into his arms and quietly pressing two fingers to his forehead, frowning lightly. Sam shudders on his lap, entire body going stiff and taught before he opens his eyes blearily, sitting up slowly.

 

“Ca-Cas?” he asks confusedly and _fuck_ , Dean’s breath escapes him in a rush as he stumbles to them in relief.

 

“Sammy, you alright?” he asks urgently, cradling his brother’s face with his hands and Sam nods, a puzzled look on his face.

 

“Wh-what happened?” he turns to Cas expectantly, pulling away from Dean and the angel shrugs.

 

“You fell and cracked your skull on the sidewalk, Sam,” he tells him matter-of-factly, “And I healed you.”

 

Sam whistles softly, shaking his head, “Thanks, Cas,” he mutters and Cas leans in, flicking his hands over the younger Winchester cheek.

 

“You should learn to be more careful,” his voice is affectionate even if he is scolding him and the truth slams into Dean like a fucking bullet.

 

He and Sam _haven’t_ been just he and Sam for a long fucking time.

 

Somehow, somewhere along the way, Sam and Dean Winchester became Sam, Dean and _Cas_ and just ‘cause he and Cas are like… _together_ , now, nothing’s changed, except the awesome sex every night.

 

Dean exhales loudly, “Oh fuck.”

 

“Dean?”

 

Both Sam and Cas turn to him with identical frowns on their faces, expressions arranged into a similar tone of Dean-you-idiot-what-have-you-done-now. And it’s so wonderful, so gorgeous to see them both like this, smeared with squished tomatoes and wet and sticky and so _alive_ , Dean’s chest tightens with emotion and a laugh bubbles in his throat.

 

“I-I’m an idiot,” he chokes out and Sam snorts.

 

“We know,” he rolls his eyes and Dean reached out to sock his brother in the shoulder, pulling him in for a hug, his other arm going around Cas so that he’s cuddled against Dean’s side.

 

An hour later, they’re back at the hotel, showering to wash off all the tomatoes. Cas offered to simply mojo them clean, but Dean rolled his eyes and yanked him into their room, offering him a saucy smirk as he slowly stripped before getting into the shower.

 

A light bulb goes off in the angel’s head and he follows the hunter inside like an eager puppy, pushing him into the tiled-water as the hot spray of the water washes away any and all traces of tomato, leaving only the essence of Cas as Dean sinks to his knees and takes his lover’s cock into his mouth.

 

He’s become very good at giving head these past few months.

 

So it doesn’t come as a surprise when Cas’s entire body goes rigid, his cock swelling in Dean’s mouth before he comes with a yell down the hunter’s throat. Dean swallows it all, sucking him through his orgasm until he begins to soften and then pulls back with a wide grin. Cas pulls him close, leaning on him on shaky legs as he presses his lips to Dean’s and chases the taste of himself on the taller man’s tongue.

 

His hand wanders down and slowly pulls at Dean’s cock, offering friction enough to tease but not satisfy. In their months together, Dean’s discovered that his angel loves to tease and draw it out, his dominant tendencies only serving to turn him on even more.

 

It’s torture of the best kind and for once, Dean won’t hate himself for enjoying this kind of pleasure-pain.

 

“Cas,” he moans, knowing he sounds wrecked and not caring.

 

“I have you, Dean,” the angel murmurs into his ear and kisses the space in between his neck and ear, biting down gently even as his strokes becomes harder and rougher. Dean comes with a throaty cry, face falling to Cas’s shoulder as the angel rakes his hand through the hunter’s wet hair, thumb rubbing soft circles into his neck as he come down from his high.

 

It doesn’t take them long after that to finish up, patting each other dry with the towels set out on the bed. They move into the room, easy and comfortable in each other’s space as they quickly get dressed, sharing the silence in a quiet comfort that Dean’s only ever had with Sam.

 

And it’s that thought – that he’s now fucking _domestic_ , with Cas – that makes him draw the angel impossibly close just as they’re about to leave. He wraps his arms around Cas’s waist, pulling him to his chest and rests his forehead against his, breath fanning across his face as Cas looks up at him, brow wrinkled in confusion.

 

“Dean?” he asks softly, voice uncertain.

 

Dean sighs, kissing him softly and sucking on his bottom lip before pulling back and shrugging.

 

“Just,” he mutters, the words stuck in his throat, “Sammy…” he exhales loudly, “Thanks,” he croaks.

 

Cas’s smiles is far too understanding; he knows that Dean isn’t just thanking him for saving Sam’s life, _again_.

 

“Come on, Dean,” he brushes his lips across the hunter’s one last time and then grabs his hand, pulling him out of their hotel room to where Sam is waiting for them.

 

The three of them grab a quick lunch and then head down to the Buñol River, which Sam insisted they go to see. He wants to check out the sunset, he claimed and Dean rolls his eyes at how much of a girl his brother is but gives in like always.

 

Sam runs on ahead, hopping down to the banks of the river delightedly, looking like an overgrown moose-baby and damn if the sight isn’t funny as hell. Dean and Cas follow at a more leisurely pace, the hunter’s hands twined with the angel’s almost hesitantly, as he’s taken to doing these past few weeks.

 

They sit down on the banks, settling close to the water on a thick rock, falling into a comfortable silence. Cas is leaning into Dean, resting his head on the taller man’s shoulder and Sam is watching them both with a sappy, puppy look on his face that Dean grunts at.

 

“ _What_ Sam?” he grumps, though he’s pretty sure he knows. Sam shakes his head and smiles widely, stretching out and resting his long-ass legs on Cas’s lap, pushing back against his own hands and staring at the sky.

 

It’s starting to turn pink, the clouds shot through with streaks of red and molten gold, the sun dipping further and further into the river until it is almost submerged into the water.

 

“Just happy to see you like this man,” Sam answer softly and Dean’s heart catches, throat tightening.

 

He’s _happy_.

 

For once, it’s not fleeting, it’s not scary and it’s not something Dean thinks is going to vanish… because, yeah, he has his brother and his angel by his side and he knows their lives are going to be fucked up the moment they return to the US and the Bunker, but maybe…

 

Maybe it won’t be so bad.

 

Maybe when Cas moves his things into Dean’s room in the Bunker, they can put up a couple of photographs from this trip and decorate their room together. Maybe Sam can pick up a couple online classes again and finish his degree; maybe Dean can pick up a couple gigs here and there in between hunts, fixing cars to ease up on the credit card fraud.

 

And maybe _someday_ , he and Cas and Sam can bring home a baby girl, with red hair and cheeky eyes and teach her to LARP and play in Mondoor. They can name her Charlene Mary and she’ll call him _Daddy_ and Cas _Papa_ and Sam Uncle _Moose_ , because that’s how his baby girl will roll. And they’ll teach her to shoot and hunt, but she’ll still go to school and have a home the way he and Sam never did.

 

(Oh fuck he’s not ready for this, not for this tightening of his chest or the way his head spins from the possibility. And no, hell, he ain’t telling Cas or Sam about his quiet plans for the future, not right now and maybe not ever. Not all dreams come true, though some do, even if they take years and irritating redheaded little sisters who are nosy and bossy.)

 

Speaking of…

 

He pulls out the plan that he and Charlie had made all those months ago, when she raided his laptop and forced herself into his private business in typical Bradbury fashion. It was as simple as making a list and damn, Charlie did it.

 

_She did it._

 

She gave him the vacation he’s been dreaming about for years and now, he can lay her to rest, finally let her go and remember her the way she deserves to be remembered – with love and warmth, not bitterness and vengeance and all those ugly things he’s been party to since she was killed.

 

“Dean?” Sam whispers and Dean looks up to see his younger brother watching him with a knowing look in eyes. Cas doesn’t say anything; he loved Charlie, but he didn’t spend as much time with her as the Winchesters did and he lets them have this moment together.

 

“She did it, Sammy,” Dean mutters, clutching at the paper in his hand tightly; it’s crumpled and the lines and colors they played with are starting to fade, given the number of times he’s held close to himself as a reminder of that he’s lost.

 

“Did what Dean?” Sam asks and Dean smiles at him.

 

“She made me make a list,” he swallows hard against the tears that burn his eyes, “And I did.”

 

He falls silent, not knowing how to put to words the guilt, the pain and the memory of Charlie stirs within him. But he’s _happy_ now, all because she wouldn’t take no for answer, and it’s time.

 

It’s time to let her go.

 

With a deep sigh, holds up his hand, the paper clinging to his fingers by the corner he’s still hanging on to. Sam’s breath hitches and in his arms, Cas stiffens before relaxing and then rubbing the hunter’s back in a show of quiet comfort. Dean turns his head, catching his angel’s lips in a quick kiss before looking back at the horizon.

 

It’s as red as Charlie’s hair was.

 

With a smile, he lets it go, heart aching with a sweet joy as he whispers, “Thanks, kiddo.”

 

The paper floats away into the sky, climbing higher and higher as the wind catches it within its wings, until they can't see it anymore.

 

Sam sighs, stretching out and plopping his face into Dean’s lap and if the elder Winchester feels something wet and hot against his thigh, he doesn’t mention it past the tightening of his own throat.

 

He leans into Cas’s warmth next to him, drawing him closer and then smiles.

 

He’s happy.

 

It’s a new beginning.

 


	10. Epilogue

“Charlene Mary Winchester, you get back here right now!”

 

Cas is yelling again and Dean groans as he buries his face further into his pillow, trying to drown out the noises of the world outside his bed. For the love of God, he’s just got back from a hunt last night; the least they can do is give him a couple of hours of sleep before they’re back on the road again.

 

He hears the door to his room open and sighs, giving up on sleep even as the soft pitter-patter of toddler footsteps get closer and closer. A soft giggle reaches his ears and he remains perfectly still as a small body clambers up the bed, falling on to him with a loud thump.

 

“ _Oomph_ ,” he dutifully huffs, well familiar with this game by now and rolls over, opening his eyes to see his three year old daughter laughing at him with wide green eyes, her soft red curls bouncing back and forth as she shakes in delight.

 

“Daddy!” she cries, “You’re home, you’re home, you're _home_!”

 

Dean holds back a wince as his eardrums protest; damn, but the girl can shriek. With a grin, he pounces on her, peppering her face with kisses, fingers tickling her tiny little belly as he rubs his day-old stubble against her soft neck. She shrieks with laughter, collapsing against him and trying to swat at him with those small little hands.

 

He growls and pretends to bite at her dainty fingers and she yells out loud.

 

“Let your father sleep, Charlie!” Cas comes crashing into the room with a frown on his face as he offers their daughter a glare. She grins cheekily and Dean’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter as he winks at his angel.

 

“’S alright, Cas,” he tells him, sitting up and pulling Charlie into his lip. She settles back against his chest, sucking on her thumb as usual and Cas rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he walks closer.

 

“You spoil her too much,” he mutters, leaning in for a quick kiss before he pulls back and rubs his hand over Charlie’s messy head. It’s obvious that the kid jumped out of bed and ran straight to her parents’ room – her breath still smells and her pajamas are all wrinkled, but Dean doesn’t care.

 

She came to them two years ago, Dean and Sam having found her while on a hunt. They’d been on the trail of a witch, having followed her all the way to a closed, backwater town in Pennsylvania, only to find out that she had already been ganked by another hunter in the area.

 

But the witch had had a baby girl, barely thirteen months old and already facing starvation and cruelty, because not _one_ of the townspeople would go close to her. Worse still, as the baby cried and shrieked, freaky shit started happening around her, like random trees being set on fire and things floating in her vicinity.

 

She was born a Natural Witch, like her mother must have been. And naturally, civilians shunned her, terrified of her powers, calling her a Satan-reincarnate and the Devil’s Child.

 

Stupid idiots didn’t know that the more they upset her, the worse the freaky shit would become. It took the Winchesters an hour to calm the baby down before she crawled up to them and promptly fell asleep in Dean’s lap.

 

She’s been his baby girl ever since.

 

Cas, as their resident angel, has taken up her training in witchcraft; he’s nowhere as good as Rowena, but he insists on teaching her anyway. Dean lets him, knowing that it’s as much for his own peace of mind as it is for Charlie’s sake – neither of them want their daughter to turn into the kind of monster they gank on a regular basis.

 

Looking at her now, bouncing on his lap excitedly, it’s hard for him to believe that this little sprite could do any kind of harm. She’s _his_ baby girl, and damn if he won’t teach her right from wrong and make her force to be reckoned with – just like her namesake.

 

“Dean?” Cas’s concerned voice pulls him out of his reverie and he shakes his head as he leans to place another kiss on his lips.

 

“Just thinking,” he mutters, hands rubbing Charlie’s belly softly as the toddler gurgles and coos happily.

 

“Well, think faster,” Cas snorts, “Because if you're up, you may as well get Charlie ready. Sam’s already got the Impala packed and ready to go and we can make it out of the city by nightfall if we leave now.”

 

Dean groans, dodging Cas’s half-hearted swipe as he rolls over on to the bed, pulling Charlie on top of him. She shrieks, burying her face in his chest and Cas sighs, plucking her out of Dean’s arms and setting her down on the bed, ignoring her pout as he brushes his hands through her long, red hair.

 

“ _Up_ , Dean,” he says crossly, “If you're awake enough to roughhouse with our daughter, then you can get her ready. I’m going to go get breakfast ready.”

 

A flash of gold catches Dean’s eye as the sunlight hits the ring on the hand that Cas is pushing him with. He catches a hold of it and presses a soft kiss to the palm, grinning up at his husband cockily before he shrugs and gets back up, drawing Charlie to him and jumping off the bed.

 

“Daddy?” she asks and he grins down at her.

 

“We’re going on vacation today, kiddo!” he tells her and she nods her head emphatically, clapping her hands in delight.

 

“Vacaysion!” she cries out, “ _Di’neylan’_!”

 

Cas chuckles and then walks out, calling for Sam, who is probably lying propped up in the library where he’s been holed up the past few months in an attempt to complete the damn college courses he signed up for. He doesn’t want to go back into law, surprisingly, just complete his degree and work as a consultant or some shit – Dean didn’t really pay much attention to what he was saying beyond the whole, don’t-worry-I’m-not-leaving-you-behind-again.

 

It’s been years since Stanford, but a part of Dean will always be terrified of losing Sam to the world, to a career and a job and a wife, with the picket fence that will never fit Dean the way the Bunker does.

 

“Daddy, _vacasion_!” Charlie chirps again and he bends down to kiss her warmly, pulling her up on to his shoulders and walking down to where Cas and Sam are laying out breakfast at the table. He makes quick work of their morning routines, brushing his daughter’s hair and getting her dressed before he scarfs down the pancakes that Cas sets in front of him.

 

“Unca Sammy!” Charlie clambers into his lap, trying to peer into the book that the nerd’s reading at the table. Sam grins down at her and settles her on top of his legs, setting the book down so that he can point out the words to her clearly. He’s the one teaching her to read and Charlene Mary Winchester takes to it like a duck to a pond.

 

She is as smart as both her namesakes, after all.

 

After breakfast, they all climb into the Impala, which is a lot more crowded than it used to be. Sam’s still got shotgun, like always, Cas never once expecting that place to go to him. Only now, there’s a small toddler on Sam’s lap, strapped in tightly as she excitedly points at things and people they speed past. The angel is stretched on the backseat that has always belonged to him and it’s as he’s driving Baby down the highway, ready and on their way to fucking Disneyland for their annual family vacation, that it hits Dean.

 

_He’s living the apple pie life._

 

Sure, there’s a lot more monster-ganking than the average Joe is used to, and their white picket fence runs around the length of an underground property that is more of a fortress than a house. There’s blood and there are fights and as much as Dean would love to keep his baby girl wrapped up and safe, she’s a supernatural creature herself, able to move things with her mind and set shit on fire cause she’s pissed that the toy in the Cheerio box is broken.

 

But along with the monster-ganking, there are fluffy pancakes and good morning kisses, from a toddler and a husband. And with the weekly monster hunt comes the bromance with his younger brother that hasn’t vanished, despite Dean getting married and raising a kid – Sam is as much parent to Charlie as Cas and Dean are and it’s different, and not normal, but who the fuck cares?

 

Because they can still come back from killing a werewolf and then go to Disneyland the next day, the three year old’s doe-eyed innocence settling their weary, hunter souls in a way nothing else can. Because soon, there’ll be PTA meetings and play dates to go along with the weekly hunts and Sam is probably going to finally tell that hot hunter chick they met three hunts ago that he’s crazy for her.

 

For the first time in a long time, their futures are looking bright.

 

Dean’s looking forward to it.

 


End file.
